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A  BOOK 

OF 

SCOUNDRELS 


y^^^^zA^^rc/     un    £Ac     J^^^ru.    JLv^       ^      jyony^x,^^^^^ 


[J-ram  an  Old  Print 


A  BOOK 

OF 

SCOUNDRELS 

BY 

CHARLES  WHIBLEY 


NEW  YORK 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO. 


MDCCCXCVII 


B 


To  the  Greeks  FOOLISHNESS 


/  desire  to  thank  the  Proprietors  of  the  "  National 
Observer,''  the  "  New  Review"  the  "  Pall  Mall 
Gazette "  and  "  Macmillan's  Magazine"  for 
courteous  permission  to  reprint  certain  chapters  of 
this  book. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction           .             .             .             .  .         i 

Captain  Hind  .....  39 

Moll  Cutpurse  and  Jonathan  Wild 

i.  moll  cutpurse            .              .              .  -57 

ii.  jonathan  wild     ....  75 

iii.  a  parallel     .              .              .              .  .87 

Ralph  Briscoe  .              .              .              .             .  95 

GiLDEROY    AND    SiXTEEN-StRING    JaCK 

i.  gilderoy         .             .             .             .  .107 

ii.  sixteen-string  jack           .              .              .  ii9 

iii.  a  parallel    .              .              .              .  .     i3i 

Thomas  Pureney           .             .             .              .  139 

Sheppard  AND  Cartouche  ■'- 

i.  jack  sheppard              .              .              .  .153 

ii.  louis-dominique  cartouche           .              .  1 63 

iii.  a  parallel     .              .              .              .  .     i75 

Vaux     ......  181 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

George  Barrington      .             .             .             .  189 

The  Switcher  and  Gentleman  Harry 

i.  the  switcher               •              .              .              .  20i 

ii.  gentleman  harry              .              .              .  215 

iii.  a  parallel    .....  229 

Deacon  Brodie  and  Charles  Peace 

I.  deacon  brodie      .              .             .              .  235 

ii.  charles  peace              ....  247 
iii.  a  parallel           .              .              .              .259 

The  Man  in  the  Grey  Suit         .              .              .  265 

Monsieur  L'Abbe           ....  275 


INTRODUCTION 

THERE  are  other  manifestations  of  greatness  than 
to  relieve  suffering  or  to  wreck  an  empire. 
Julius  Caesar  and  John  Howard  are  not  the  only 
heroes  who  have  smiled  upon  the  world.  In  the 
supreme  adaptation  of  means  to  an  end  there  is  a 
constant  nobility,  for  neither  ambition  nor  virtue  is 
the  essential  of  a  perfect  action.  How  shall  you  con- 
template with  indifference  the  career  of  an  artist  whom 
genius  or  good  guidance  has  compelled  to  exercise  his 
peculiar  skill,  to  indulge  his  finer  aptitudes  ?  A 
masterly  theft  rises  in  its  claim  to  respect  high  above 
the  reprobation  of  the  moralist.  The  scoundrel,  once 
justice  is  quit  of  him,  has  a  right  to  be  appraised  by 
his  actions,  not  by  their  effect ;  and  he  dies  secure  in 
the  knowledge  that  he  is  commonly  more  distinguished, 
if  he  be  less  loved,  than  his  virtuous  contemporaries. 

While  murder  is  well-nigh  as  old  as  life,  property 
and  the  pocket  invented  theft,  late-born  among  the 
arts.  It  was  not  until  avarice  had  devised  many  a 
cunning  trick  for  the  protection  of  wealth,  until 
civilisation  had  multiplied  the  forms  of  portable 
property,  that  thieving  became  a  liberal  and  an  elegant 

A 


2  INTRODUCTION 

profession.  True,  in  pastoral  society,  the  lawless  man 
was  eager  to  lift  cattle,  to  break  down  the  barrier 
between  robbery  and  warfare.  But  the  contrast  is  as 
sharp  between  the  savagery  of  the  ancient  reiver 
and  the  polished  performance  of  Captain  Hind  as 
between  the  daub  of  the  pavement  and  the  perfection 
of  Velasquez. 

So  long  as  the  Gothic  spirit  governed  Europe, 
expressing  itself  in  useless  ornament  and  wanton 
brutality,  the  more  delicate  crafts  had  no  hope  of 
exercise.  Even  the  adventurer  upon  the  road  threat- 
ened his  victim  with  a  bludgeon,  nor  was  it  until 
the  breath  of  the  Renaissance  had  vivified  the  world 
that  a  gentleman  and  an  artist  could  face  the  traveller 
with  a  courteous  demand  for  his  purse.  But  the  age 
which  witnessed  the  enterprise  of  Drake  and  the 
triumph  of  Shakespeare  knew  also  the  prowess  of  the 
highwayman  and  the  dexterity  of  the  cutpurse.  Though 
the  art  displayed  all  the  freshness  and  curiosity  of  the 
primitives,  still  it  was  art.  With  Gamaliel  Ratsey, 
who  demanded  a  scene  from  Hamlet  of  a  rifled 
player,  and  who  could  not  rob  a  Cambridge  scholar 
without  bidding  him  deliver  an  oration  in  a  wood, 
theft  was  already  better  than  a  vulgar  extortion.  Moll 
Cutpurse,  whose  intelligence  and  audacity  were  never 
bettered,  was  among  the  bravest  of  the  Elizabethans. 
Her  temperament  was  as  large  and  as  reckless  as  Ben 
Jonson's  own.  Neither  her  tongue  nor  her  courage 
knew  the  curb  of  modesty,  and  she  was  the  first 
to   reduce  her  craft  to  a  set  of  wise  and  imperious 


THE  ART  OF  THEFT  3 

rules.  She  it  was  who  discovered  the  secret  of  disci- 
pline, and  who  insisted  that  every  member  of  her  gang 
should  undertake  no  other  enterprise  than  that  for 
which  nature  had  framed  him.  Thus  she  made  easy 
the  path  for  that  other  hero,  of  whom  you  are  told 
that  his  band  was  made  up  *'  of  several  sorts  of  wicked 
artists,  of  whom  he  made  several  uses,  according  as  he 
perceived  which  way  every  man's  particular  talent  lay." 
This  statesman — Thomas  Dun  was  his  name — drew 
up  for  the  use  of  his  comrades  a  stringent  and  stately 
code,  while  he  was  wont  to  deliver  an  address  to  all 
novices  concerning  the  art  and  mystery  of  robbing 
upon  the  highway.  Under  auspices  so  brilliant, 
thievery  could  not  but  flourish,  and  when  the  Stuarts 
sat  upon  the  throne  it  was  already  lifted  above  the  level 
of  questioning  experiment. 

Every  art  is  shaped  by  its  material,  and  with  the 
variations  of  its  material  it  must  perforce  vary.  If  the 
skill  of  the  cutpurse  compelled  the  invention  of  the 
pocket,  it  is  certain  that  the  rare  difliculties  of  the 
pocket  created  the  miraculous  skill  of  those  crafty 
lingers  which  were  destined  to  empty  it.  And  as 
increased  obstacles  are  perfection's  best  incentive,  a 
finer  cunning  grew  out  of  the  fresh  precaution. 
History  does  not  tell  us  who  it  was  that  discovered 
this  new  continent  of  roguery.  Those  there  are  who 
give  the  credit  to  the  valiant  Moll  Cutpurse ;  but 
though  the  Roaring  Girl  had  wit  to  conceive  a 
thousand  strange  enterprises,  she  had  not  the  hand  to 
carry  them  out,  and  the  first  pickpocket  must  needs 


4  INTRODUCTION 

have  been  a  man  of  action.  Moreover,  her  nickname 
suggests  the  more  ancient  practice,  and  it  is  vjriser 
to  yield  the  credit  to  Simon  Fletcher,  w^hose  praises 
are  chanted  by  the  early  historians. 

Now,  Simon,  says  his  biographer,  was  *' looked 
upon  to  be  the  greatest  artist  of  his  age  by  all  his 
contemporaries."  The  son  of  a  baker  in  Rosemary 
Lane,  he  early  deserted  his  father's  oven  for  a  life  ot 
adventure ;  and  he  claims  to  have  been  the  first 
collector  who,  stealing  the  money,  yet  left  the  case. 
The  new  method  was  incomparably  more  subtle  than 
the  old  :  it  afforded  an  opportunity  of  a  hitherto 
unimagined  delicacy ;  the  wielders  of  the  scissors  were 
aghast  at  a  skill  which  put  their  own  clumsiness  to 
shame,  and  which  to  a  previous  generation  would  have 
seemed  the  wildest  fantasy.  Yet  so  strong  is  habit, 
that  even  when  the  picking  of  pockets  was  a  recog- 
nised industry,  the  superfluous  scissors  still  survived, 
and  many  a  rogue  has  hanged  upon  the  Tree  because 
he  attempted  with  a  vulgar  implement  such  feats  as 
his  unaided  forks  had  far  more  easily  accomplished. 

But,  despite  the  innovation  of  Simon  Fletcher,  the 
highway  was  the  glory  of  Elizabeth,  the  still  greater 
glory  of  the  Stuarts.  *'  The  Lacedaemonians  were  the 
only  people,"  said  Horace  Walpole,  "except  the 
English  who  seem  to  have  put  robbery  on  a  right 
foot."  And  the  English  of  the  seventeenth  century 
need  fear  the  rivalry  of  no  Lacedaemonian.  They 
were,  indeed,  the  most  valiant  and  graceful  robbers 
that   the   world   has   ever   known.     The  Civil  War 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE  OF  THE  ROAD  5 

encouraged  their  profession,  and,  since  many  of  them 
had  fought  for  their  king,  a  proper  hatred  of  Cromwell 
sharpened  their  wits.  They  were  scholars  as  well  as 
gentlemen  ;  they  tempered  their  sport  with  a  merry 
wit  J  their  avarice  alone  surpassed  their  courtesy;  and 
they  robbed  with  so  perfect  a  regard  for  the  proprieties 
that  it  was  only  the  prig  and  the  parliamentarian  who 
resented  their  interference. 

Nor  did  their  princely  manner  fail  of  its  effect  upon 
their  victims.  The  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century 
was  the  golden  age,  not  only  of  the  robber,  but  of  the 
robbed.  The  game  was  played  upon  either  side  with 
a  scrupulous  respect  for  a  potent,  if  unwritten,  law. 
Neither  might  nor  right  was  permitted  to  control  the 
issue.  A  gaily  attired,  superbly  mounted  highwayman 
would  hold  up  a  coach  packed  with  armed  men,  and 
take  a  purse  from  each,  though  a  vigorous  remon- 
strance might  have  carried  him  to  Tyburn.  But  the 
traveller  knew  his  place  :  he  did  what  was  expected  of 
him  in  the  best  of  tempers.  Who  was  he  that  he 
should  yield  in  courtesy  to  the  man  in  the  vizard  ? 
As  it  was  monstrous  for  the  one  to  discharge  his  pistol, 
so  the  other  could  not  resist  without  committing  an 
outrage  upon  tradition.  One  wonders  what  had  been 
the  result  if  some  mannerless  reformer  had  declined  his 
assailant's  invitation  and  drawn  his  sword.  Maybe 
the  sensitive  art  might  have  died  under  this  sharp 
rebuff.  But  none  but  regicides  were  known  to  resist, 
and  their  resistance  was  never  more  forcible  than  a 
volley  of  texts.     Thus  the  High-toby-crack  swaggered 


6  INTRODUCTION 

it  with  insolent  gaiety,  knowing  no  worse  misery  than 
the  fear  of  the  Tree,  so  long  as  he  followed  the  rules  of 
his  craft.  But  let  a  touch  of  brutality  disgrace  his 
method,  and  he  appealed  in  vain  for  sympathy  or  in- 
dulgence. The  ruffian,  for  instance,  of  whom  it  is 
grimly  recorded  that  he  added  a  tie-wig  to  his  booty, 
neither  deserved  nor  received  the  smallest  consideration. 
Delivered  to  justice,  he  speedily  met  the  death  his 
vulgarity  merited,  and  the  road  was  taught  the  salutary 
lesson  that  wigs  were  as  sacred  as  trinkets  hallowed 
by  association. 

With  the  eighteenth  century  the  highway  fell  upon 
decline.  No  doubt  in  its  silver  age,  the  century's 
beginning,  many  a  brilliant  deed  was  done.  Some- 
thing of  the  old  policy  survived,  and  men  of  spirit 
still  went  upon  the  pad.  But  the  breadth  of  the 
ancient  style  was  speedily  forgotten  ;  and  by  the  time 
the  First  George  climbed  to  the  throne,  robbery  was 
already  a  sordid  trade.  Neither  side  was  conscious 
of  its  noble  obligation.  The  vulgar  audacity  of  a 
bullying  thief  was  suitably  answered  by  the  ungracious, 
involuntary  submission  of  the  terrified  traveller.  From 
end  to  end  of  England  you  might  hear  the  cry  of 
"  Stand  and  deliver."  Yet  how  changed  the  accent ! 
The  beauty  of  gesture,  the  deference  of  carriage,  the 
ready  response  to  a  legitimate  demand — all  the  qualities 
of  a  dignified  art  were  lost  for  ever.  As  its  professors 
increased  in  number,  the  note  of  aristocracy,  once 
dominant,  was  silenced.  The  meanest  rogue,  who 
cculd  hire  a  horse,  might  cut  a  contemptible  figure  on 


A  COWARD  AMONG  HEROES  7 

Bagshot  Heath,  and  feel  no  shame  at  robbing  a  poor 
man.  Once — in  that  Augustan  age,  whose  brightest 
ornament  was  Captain  Hind — it  was  something  of  a 
distinction  to  be  decently  plundered.  But  a  century 
later  there  was  none  so  humble  but  he  might  be  asked 
to  empty  his  pocket.  In  brief,  the  blight  of  democracy 
was  upon  what  should  have  remained  a  refined,  secluded 
art ;  and  nowise  is  the  decay  better  illustrated  than  in 
the  appreciation  of  bunglers,  whose  exploits  were  scarce 
worth  a  record. 

James  Maclaine,  for  instance,  was  the  hero  of  his 
age.  In  a  history  of  cowards  he  would  deserve  the 
first  place,  but  the  *'  Gentleman  Highwayman,"  as  he 
was  pompously  styled,  enjoyed  a  triumph  denied  to 
many  a  victorious  general.  Lord  Mountford  led  half 
White's  to  do  him  honour  on  the  day  of  his  arrest. 
On  the  first  Sunday,  which  he  spent  in  Newgate, 
three  thousand  jostled  for  entrance  to  his  cell,  and 
the  poor  devil  fainted  three  times  at  the  heat  caused 
by  the  throng  of  his  admirers.  So  long  as  his  fete  hung 
in  the  balance,  Walpole  could  not  take  up  his  pen 
without  a  compliment  to  the  man,  who  claimed  to 
have  robbed  him  near  Hyde  Park.  Yet  a  more  pitiful 
rascal  never  showed  the  white  feather.  Not  once  was  he 
known  to  take  a  purse  with  his  own  hand,^the  summit 
of  his  achievement  being  to  hold  the  horses'  heads 
while  his  accomplice  spoke  with  the  passengers.  A 
poltroon  before  his  arrest,  in  Court  he  whimpered  and 
whinnied  for  mercy  j  he  was  carried  to  the  cart  pallid 
and  trembling,  and  not  even  his  preposterous  finery 


8  INTRODUCTION 

availed  to  hearten  him  at  the  gallows.  Taxed  with 
his  timidity,  he  attempted  to  excuse  himself  on  the 
inadmissible  plea  of  moral  rectitude.  "  I  have  as 
much  personal  courage  in  an  honourable  cause,"  he 
exclaimed  in  a  passage  of  false  dignity,  "as  any  man 
in  Britain  ;  but  as  I  knew  I  was  committing  acts 
of  injustice,  so  I  went  to  them  half  loth  and  half 
consenting  ;  and  in  that  sense  I  own  I  am  a  coward 
indeed." 

The  disingenuousness  of  this  proclamation  is  as 
remarkable  as  its  hypocrisy.  Well  might  he  brag  of 
his  courage  in  an  honourable  cause,  when  he  knew  that 
he  could  never  be  put  to  the  test.  But  what  palliation 
shall  you  find  for  a  rogue  with  so  little  pride  in  his  art,. 
that  he  exercised  it  *'  half  loth,  half  consenting  "  ?  It  is 
not  in  this  recreant  spirit  that  masterpieces  are  achieved, 
and  Maclaine  had  better  have  stayed  in  the  far  High- 
land parish,  which  bred  him,  than  have  attempted  to 
cut  a  figure  in  the  larger  world  of  London.  His  famous 
encounter  with  Walpole  should  have  covered  him 
with  disgrace,  for  it  was  ignoble  at  every  point;  yet 
the  art  was  so  little  understood,  that  it  merely  added 
a  leaf  to  his  crown  of  glory.  Now,  though  Walpole 
was  far  too  well-bred  to  oppose  the  demand  of  an 
armed  stranger,  Maclaine,  in  defiance  of  his  craft,  dis- 
charged his  pistol  at  an  innocent  head.  True,  he 
wrote  a  letter  of  apology,  and  insisted  that,  had  the  one 
pistol-shot  proved  fatal,  he  had  another  in  reserve  for 
himself.  But  not  even  Walpole  would  have  believed 
him,  had  not  an  amiable  faith  given  him  an  opportunity 


THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY         9 

for  the  answering  quip  :  "  Can  I  do  less  than  say  I  will 
be  hanged  if  he  is  ?  " 

As  Maclaine  was  a  coward  and  no  thief,  so  also  he  was 
a  snob  and  no  gentleman.  His  boasted  elegance  was  not 
more  respectable  than  his  art.  Fine  clothes  are  the 
embellishment  of  a  true  adventurer,  but  they  hang  ill 
on  the  sloping  shoulders  of  a  poltroon.  And  Maclaine, 
with  all  the  ostensible  weaknesses  of  his  kind,  would 
claim  regard  for  the  strength  that  he  knew  not.  He 
occupied  a  costly  apartment  in  St.  James's  Street ;  his 
morning  dress  was  a  crimson  damask  banjam,  a  silk 
shag  waistcoat,  trimmed  with  lace,  black  velvet 
breeches,  white  silk  stockings,  and  yellow  morocco 
slippers ;  but  since  his  magnificence  added  no  jot  to 
his  courage,  it  was  rather  mean  than  admirable.  Indeed, 
his  whole  career  was  marred  by  the  provincialism  of  his 
native  manse.  Yet  he  was  the  adored  of  an  intelligent 
age,  and  he  basked  a  few  brief  weeks  in  the  noonday 
sun  of  fashion. 

But  distinction  was  not  the  heritage  of  the  Eighteenth 
Century ;  its  glory  is  that  now  and  again  a  giant  raised 
his  head  above  the  stature  of  a  prevailing  rectitude.  The 
art  of  verse  was  lost  in  rhetoric  ;  the  noble  prose,  in- 
vented by  the  Elizabethans,  and  refined  under  the 
Stuarts,  was  whittled  away  to  common  sense  by  the 
admirers  of  Addison  and  Steele.  Swift  and  Johnson, 
Gibbon  and  Fielding,  were  apparitions  of  strength  in  an 
amiable,  ineffective  age.  They  emerged  sudden  from 
the  impeccable  greyness,  to  which  they  afforded  an 
heroic  contrast.  So,  while  the  highway  drifted — drifted 


10  INTRODUCTION 

to  a  vulgar  incompetence,  the  craft  was  illumined  by 
many  a  flash  of  unexpected  genius.  The  brilliant 
achievements  of  Jonathan  Wild  and  of  Jack  Sheppard 
might  have  relieved  the  gloom  of  the  darkest  era,  and 
their  separate  masterpieces  make  some  atonement  for 
the  environing  cowardice  and  stupidity.  Above  all,  the 
Eighteenth  Century  was  Newgate's  golden  age ;  now 
for  the  first  time  and  the  last  were  the  rules  and  customs 
of  the  Jug  perfectly  understood.  If  Jonathan  the  Great 
was  unrivalled  in  the  art  of  clapping  his  enemies  into 
prison,  if  Jack  the  Slipstring  was  supreme  in  the  rarer 
art  of  getting  himself  out,  even  the  meanest  criminal 
of  his  time  knew  what  was  expected  of  him,  so  long  as 
he  wandered  within  the  walled  yard,  or  listened  to  the 
ministrations  of  the  snufF-besmirched  Ordinary.  He 
might  show  a  lamentable  lack  of  cleverness  in  carrying 
off  his  booty;  he  might  prove  a  too  easy  victim  to  the 
wiles  of  the  thief-catcher  j  but  he  never  fell  short  of 
courage,  when  asked  to  sustain  the  consequences  of  his 
crime. 

Newgate,  compared  by  one  eminent  author  to  a 
university,  by  another  to  a  ship,  was  a  republic,  whose 
liberty  extended  only  so  far  as  its  iron  door.  But  while 
there  was  no  liberty  without,  there  was  license  within ; 
and  if  the  culprit,  who  paid  for  the  smallest  indiscre- 
tion with  his  neck,  understood  the  etiquette  of  the 
place,  he  spent  his  last  weeks  in  an  orgie  of  rollicking 
lawlessness.  He  drank,  he  ate,  he  diced  j  he  received 
his  friends,  or  chaffed  the  Ordinary;  he  attempted, 
through  the  well-paid  cunning  of  the  Clerk,  to  bribe 


THE  FATAL  BELLMAN  ii 

the  jury  j  and  when  every  artifice  had  failed  he  went 
to  Tyburn  Hke  a  man.  If  he  knew  not  how  to  live, 
at  least  he  would  show  a  resentful  world  how  to  die. 

"In  no  country,"  wrote  Sir  T.  Smith,  a  distinguished 
lawyer  of  the  time,  "  do  malefactors  go  to  execution 
more  intrepidly  than  in  England;"  and  assuredly,  buoyed 
up  by  custom  and  the  approval  of  their  fellows.  Wild's 
victims  made  a  brave  show  at  the  gallows.  Nor 
was  their  bravery  the  result  of  a  common  callousness. 
They  understood  at  once  the  humour  and  the 
delicacy  of  the  situation.  Though  hitherto  they  had 
chaffed  the  Ordinary,  they  now  listened  to  his  exhorta- 
tion with  at  least  a  semblance  of  respect ;  and  though 
their  last  night  upon  earth  might  have  been  devoted  to 
a  joyous  company,  they  did  not  withhold  their  ear 
from  the  Bellman's  Chant.  As  twelve  o'clock 
approached — their  last  midnight  upon  earth — they 
would  interrupt  the  most  spirited  discourse,  they  would 
check  the  tour  of  the  mellowest  bottle  to  listen  to  the 
solemn  doggerel.  "  All  you  that  in  the  condemn'd  hole 
do  lie,"  groaned  the  Bellman  of  St.  Sepulchre's  in  his 
duskiest  voice,  and  they  who  held  revel  in  the  con- 
demned hole  prayed  silence  of  their  friends  for  the 
familiar  cadences  : 

All  you  that  in  the  condemn'd  hole  do  lie. 
Prepare  you,  for  to-morrow  you  shall  die. 
Watch  all  and  pray,  the  hour  is  drawing  near. 
That  you  before  th'  Almighty  must  appear. 
Examine  well  yourselves,  in  time  repent 
That  you  may  not  t'  eternal  flames  be  sent : 


12  INTRODUCTION 

And  when  St.  Pulchre's  bell  to-morrow  tolls, 
The  Lord  above  have  mercy  on  your  souls. 
Past  twelve  o'clock  ! 

Even  if  this  warning  voice  struck  a  momentary 
terror  into  their  offending  souls,  they  were  up  betimes 
in  the  morning,  eager  to  pay  their  final  debt.  Their 
journey  from  Newgate  to  Tyburn  was  a  triumph, 
and  their  vanity  was  unabashed  at  the  droning 
menaces  of  the  Ordinary.  At  one  point  a  chorus 
of  maidens  cast  wreaths  upon  their  way,  or  pinned 
nosegays  in  their  coats,  that  they  might  not  face  the 
executioner  unadorned.  At  the  Crown  Tavern  they 
quaffed  their  last  glass  of  ale,  and  told  the  landlord 
with  many  a  leer  and  smirk  that  they  would  pay  him 
on  their  way  back.  Though  gravity  was  asked,  it  was 
not  always  given ;  but  in  the  Eighteenth  Century 
courage  was  seldom  wanting.  To  the  common  citizen 
a  violent  death  was  (and  is)  the  worst  of  horrors;  to 
the  ancient  highwayman  it  was  the  odd  trick  lost  in 
the  game  of  life.  And  he  endured  the  rope,  as  the 
practised  gambler  loses  his  estate,  without  blenching. 
One  there  was,  who  felt  his  leg  tremble  in  his  own 
despite:  wherefore  he  stamped  it  upon  the  ground  so 
violently,  that  in  other  circumstances  he  would  have 
roared  with  pain,  and  he  left  the  world  without  a  tremor. 
In  this  spirit  Cranmer  burnt  his  recreant  right  hand, 
and  in  either  case  the  glamour  of  a  unique  occasion  was 
a  stimulus  to  courage. 

But   not   even   this   brilliant   treatment  of  acces- 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  PICKPOCKET       13 

series  availed  to  save  the  highway  from  disrepute; 
indeed,  it  had  become  the  profitless  pursuit  of  brag- 
garts and  loafers,  long  before  the  abolition  of  the 
stage-coach  destroyed  its  opportunity.  In  the  mean- 
time, however,  the  pickpocket  was  master  of  his  trade. 
His  strategy  was  perfect,  his  sleight  of  hand  as  delicate 
as  long,  lithe  fingers  and  nimble  brains  could  make  it. 
He  had  discarded  for  ever  those  clumsy  instruments 
whose  use  had  barred  the  progress  of  the  Primitives. 
The  breast-pocket  behind  the  tightest  buttoned  coat 
presented  no  difficulty  to  his  love  of  research,  and  he 
would  penetrate  the  stoutest  frieze  or  the  lightest  satin, 
as  easily  as  Jack  Sheppard  made  a  h'^le  through  New- 
gate. His  trick  of  robbery  was  so  simple  and  yet  so 
successful,  that  ever  since  it  has  remained  a  tradition. 
The  collision,  the  victim's  murmured  apology,  the 
hasty  scufHe,  the  booty  handed  to  the  aide-de-camp^ 
who  is  out  of  sight  before  the  hue  and  cry  can  be 
raised — such  was  the  policy  advocated  two  hundred 
years  ago  ;  such  is  the  policy  pursued  to-day  by  the 
few  artists  that  remain. 

Throughout  the  eighteenth  century  the  art  ot 
cly-faking  held  its  own,  though  its  reputation  paled 
in  the  glamour  of  the  highway.  It  culminated  in 
George  Barrington,  whose  vivid  genius  persuaded 
him  to  work  alone  and  to  carry  off  his  own  booty ; 
it  still  flourished  (in  a  silver  age)  when  the  incom- 
parable Haggart  performed  his  prodigies  of  skill  j 
even  in  our  prosaic  time  some  flashes  of  the  ancient 
glory  have  been  seen.     Now  and  again  circumstances 


14  INTRODUCTION 

have  driven  it  into  eclipse.  When  the  facile  sentiment 
of  the  Early  Victorian  Era  poised  the  tear  of  sympathy 
upon  every  trembling  eyelid,  the  most  obdurate  was 
forced  to  provide  himself  with  a  silk  handkerchief  of 
equal  size  and  value.  Now,  a  wipe  is  the  easiest 
booty  in  the  world,  and  the  Artful  Dodger  might  grow 
rich  without  the  exercise  of  the  smallest  skill.  But 
wipes  dwindled,  with  dwindling  sensibility ;  and  once 
more  the  pickpocket  was  forced  upon  cleverness  or 
extinction. 

At  the  same  time  the  more  truculent  trade  of  house- 
breaking was  winning  a  lesser  triumph  of  its  own. 
Never,  save  in  the  hands  of  one  or  two  distinguished 
practitioners,  has  this  clumsy,  brutal  pursuit  taken  on 
the  refinement  of  an  art.  Essentially  modern,  it  has 
generally  been  pursued  in  the  meanest  spirit  of  gain. 
Deacon  Brodie  clung  to  it  as  to  a  diversion,  but  he 
was  an  amateur,  without  a  clear  understanding  of  his 
craft's  possibilities.  The  sole  monarch  of  house- 
breakers was  Charles  Peace.  At  a  single  stride  he 
surpassed  his  predecessors  ;  nor  has  the  greatest  of  his 
imitators  been  worthy  to  hand  on  the  candle  which  he 
left  at  the  gallows.  For  the  rest,  there  is  small  dis- 
tinction in  breaking  windows,  wielding  crowbars,  and 
battering  the  brains  of  defenceless  old  gentlemen. 
And  it  is  to  such  miserable  tricks  as  this  that  he  who 
two  centuries  since  rode  abroad  in  all  the  glory  of  the 
High-toby-splice  descends  in  these  days  of  avarice  and 
stupidity.  The  legislators  who  decreed  that  henceforth 
the  rope  should  be  reserved  for  the  ultimate  crime  of 


THE  MODERN  SCOUNDREL         15 

murder  were  inspired  with  a  proper  sense  of  humour 
and  proportion.  It  would  be  ignoble  to  dignify  that 
ugly  enterprise  of  to-day,  the  cracking  of  suburban 
cribs,  with  the  same  punishment  which  was  meted  out 
to  Claude  Duval  and  the  immortal  Switcher.  Better 
for  the  churl  the  disgrace  of  Portland  than  the  chance 
of  heroism  and  respect  given  at  the  Tree  ! 

But  where  are  the  heroes  whose  art  was  as  glorious 
as  their  intrepidity  ?  One  and  all  they  have  climbed 
the  ascent  of  Tyburn.  One  and  all,  they  have  leaped 
resplendent  from  the  cart.  The  world,  which  was  the 
joyous  playground  of  highwaymen  and  pickpockets, 
is  now  the  Arcadia  of  swindlers.  The  man  who  ^ 
once  went  forth  to  meet  his  equal  on  the  road,  now 
plunders  the  defenceless  widow  or  the  foolish  clergy- 
man from  the  security  of  an  office.  He  has  changed 
Black  Bess  for  a  brougham,  his  pistol  for  a  cigar  j  a 
sleek  chimney-pot  sits  upon  the  head,  which  once 
carried  a  jaunty  hat,  three-cornered ;  spats  have 
replaced  the  tops  of  ancient  times  ;  and  a  heavy  fur 
coat  advertises  at  once  the  wealth  and  inaction  of  the 
modern  brigand.  No  longer  does  he  roam  the  heaths 
of  Hounslow  or  Bagshot ;  no  longer  does  he  track  the 
grazier  to  a  country  fair.  Fearful  of  an  encounter,  he 
chooses  for  the  fields  of  his  enterprise  the  ^byways  of 
the  City,  and  the  advertisement  columns  of  the  smugly 
Christian  Press.  He  steals  without  risking  his  skin  or 
losing  his  respectability.  The  suburb,  wherein  he 
brings  up  a  blameless,  flat-footed  family,  regards  him  as 
its  most  renowned  benefactor.    He  is  generally  a  pillar 


i6  INTRODUCTION 

(or  a  buttress)  of  the  Church,  and  oftentimes  a  mayor ; 
with  his  ill-gotten  wealth  he  promotes  charities,  and 
endows  schools  ;  his  portrait  is  painted  by  a  second- 
rate  Academician,  and  hangs,  until  disaster  overtakes 
him,  in  the  town-hall  of  his  adopted  borough. 

But  how  much  worse  is  he  than  the  High-toby- 
cracks  of  old  !  They  were  as  brave  as  lions  ;  he  is  a 
very  louse  for  timidity.  His  conduct  is  meaner  than  the 
conduct  of  the  most  ruffianly  burglar  that  ever  worked 
a  centre-bit.  Of  art  he  has  not  the  remotest  inkling  : 
though  his  greed  is  bounded  by  the  Bank  of  England, 
he  understands  not  the  elegancies  of  life  ;  he  cares  not 
how  he  plumps  his  purse,  so  long  as  it  be  full  ;  and  if 
he  were  capable  of  conceiving  a  grand  effect,  he  would 
willingly  surrender  it  for  a  pocketed  half-crown.  This 
side  the  Channel,  in  brief,  romance  and  the  picturesque 
are  dead  ;  and  in  France,  the  last  refuge  of  crime, 
there  are  already  signs  of  decay.  The  Abbe  Bruneau 
caught  a  whifF  of  style  and  invention  from  the  past. 
That  other  Abbe — Rosselot  was  his  name — shone 
forth  a  pure  creator  :  he  owed  his  prowess  to  the 
example  of  none.  But  in  Paris  crime  is  too  often 
passionelj  and  a  crime  passionel  is  a  crime  with  a  pur- 
pose, which,  like  the  novel  with  a  purpose,  is  conceived 
by  a  dullard,  and  carried  out  for  the  gratification  of  the 
middle-class. 

To  whitewash  the  scoundrel  is  to  put  upon  him  the 
heaviest  dishonour  :  a  dishonour  comparable  only  to  the 
monstrously  illogical  treatment  of  the  condemned. 
When  once  a  hero  has  forfeited  his  right  to  comfort 


THE  SCOUNDREL'S  QUALITIES       17 

and  freedom,  when  he  is  deemed  no  longer  fit  to  live 
upon  earth,  the  Prison  Chaplain,  encouraging  him  to  a 
final  act  of  hypocrisy,  gives  him  a  free  pass  (so  to  say) 
into  another  and  more  exclusive  world.  So,  too,  the 
moralist  would  test  the  thief  by  his  own  narrow 
standard,  forgetting  that  all  professions  are  not 
restrained  by  the  same  code.  The  road  has  its 
ordinances  as  well  as  the  lecture-room;  and  if  the 
thief  is  commonly  a  bad  moralist,  it  is  certain  that  no 
moralist  was  ever  a  great  thief.  Why  then  detract 
from  a  man's  legitimate  glory  ?  Is  it  not  wiser 
to  respect  "  that  deep  intuition  of  oneness,"  which 
Coleridge  says  is  "  at  the  bottom  of  our  faults  as  well 
as  our  virtues  ? "  To  recognise  that  a  fault  in  an 
honest  man  is  a  virtue  in  a  scoundrel  ?  After  all,  he 
is  eminent  who,  in  obedience  to  his  talent,  does  pro- 
digies of  valour  unrivalled  by  his  fellows.  And  none 
has  so  many  opportunities  of  various  eminence  as  the 
scoundrel. 

The  qualities  which  may  profitably  be  applied  to  a 
cross  life  are  uncommon  and  innumerable.  It  is  not 
given  to  all  men  to  be  light-brained,  light-limbed,  light- 
fingered.  A  courage  which  shall  face  an  enemy  under 
the  starlight,  or  beneath  the  shadow  of  a  wall,  which 
shall  track  its  prey  to  a  well-defended  lair,  is  far  rarer  than 
a  law-abiding  cowardice.  The  recklessness  that  risks 
all  for  a  present  advantage  is  called  genius,  if  a  vic- 
torious general  urge  it  to  success  ;  nor  can  you  deny 
to  the  intrepid  Highwayman,  whose  sudden  resolution 
triumphs  at  an  instant  of  peril,  the  possession  of  an 

B 


i8  INTRODUCTION 

admirable  gift.  But  all  heroes  have  not  proved  them- 
selves excellent  at  all  points.  This  one  has  been 
distinguished  for  the  courtly  manner  of  his  attack, 
that  other  for  a  prescience  which  discovers  booty 
behind  a  coach-door  or  within  the  pocket  of  a  buttoned 
coat.  If  Cartouche  was  a  master  of  strategy,  Barring- 
ton  was  unmatched  in  another  branch  ;  and  each  may 
claim  the  credit  due  to  a  peculiar  eminence.  It  is  only 
thus  that  you  may  measure  conflicting  talents  :  as  it 
were  unfair  to  judge  a  poet  by  a  brief  experiment  in 
prose,  so  it  would  be  monstrous  to  cheapen  the  accom- 
plishments of  a  pickpocket,  because  he  bungled  at  the 
concealment  of  his  gains. 

But  a  stern  test  of  artistry  is  the  gallows.  Perfect 
behaviour  at  an  enforced  and  public  scrutiny  may 
properly  be  esteemed  an  effect  of  talent — an  efFect 
which  has  not  too  often  been  rehearsed.  There  is 
no  reason  why  the  Scoundrel,  fairly  beaten  at  the 
last  point  in  the  game,  should  not  go  to  his  death 
without  swagger  and  without  remorse.  At  least  he 
might  comfort  himself  with  such  phrases  as  "a 
dance  without  the  music,"  and  he  has  not  often 
been  lacking  in  courage.  What  he  has  missed  is 
dignity :  his  pitfalls  have  been  unctuosity,  on  the 
one  side,  bravado  on  the  other.  It  was  the  Prison 
Ordinary  who  first  misled  him  into  the  assump- 
tion of  a  piety  which  neither  preacher  nor  disciple 
understood.  It  was  the 'Prison  Ordinary  who  per- 
suaded him  to  sign  his  name  to  a  lying  confession 
of  guilt,  drawn  up  in  accordance  with  a  foolish  and 


THE  GALLOWS  19 

inexorable  tradition,  and  to  deliver  such  a  last  dying 
speech  as  would  not  disappoint  the  mob.  The  set 
phrases,  the  vain  prayer  offered  for  other  sinners,  the 
hypocritical  profession  of  a  superior  righteousness,  were 
neither  noble  nor  sincere.  When  Tom  Jones  (for 
instance)  was  hanged,  in  1702,  after  a  prosperous  career 
on  Hounslow  Heath,  his  biographer  declared  that  he 
behaved  with  more  than  usual  "  modesty  and  decency," 
because  he  "  delivered  a  pretty  deal  of  good  advice  to 
the  young  men  present,  exhorting  them  to  be  indus- 
trious in  their  several  callings."  Whereas  his  biogra- 
pher should  have  discovered  that  it  is  not  thus  that 
your  true  hero  bids  farewell  to  frolic  and  adventure. 

As  little  in  accordance  with  good  taste  was  the  last 
appearance  of  the  infamous  Jocelin  Harwood,  who  was 
swung  from  the  cart  in  1692  for  murder  and  robbery. 
He  arrived  at  Tyburn  insolently  drunk.  He  blus- 
tered and  ranted,  until  the  spectators  hissed  their 
disapproval,  and  he  died  vehemently  shouting  that  he 
would  act  the  same  murder  again  in  the  same  case. 
Unworthy,  also,  was  the  last  dying  repartee  of  Samuel 
Shotland,  a  notorious  bully  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 
Taking  off  his  shoes,  he  hurled  them  into  the  crowd, 
with  a  smirk  of  delight.  "  My  father  and  mother  often 
told  me,"  he  cried,  "  that  I  should  die  with  my  shoes 
on  ;  but  you  may  all  see  that  I  have  made  them  both 
liars."  A  great  man  dies  not  with  so  mean  a  jest, 
and  Tyburn  was  untouched  to  mirth  by  Shotland's 
facile  humour. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  those  who  have  given 


20  INTRODUCTION 

a  splendid  example  of  a  brave  and  dignified  death. 
Brodie  was  a  sorry  bungler  when  at  work,  but  a  perfect 
artist  at  the  gallows.  The  glory  of  his  last  achievement 
will  never  fade.  The  muttered  prayer,  unblemished  by 
hypocrisy,  the  jest  thrown  at  George  Smith — a  meta- 
phor from  the  gaming-table — the  silent  adjustment  of 
the  cord  which  was  to  strangle  him,  these  last  offices 
were  performed  with  an  unparalleled  quietude  and 
restraint.  Though  he  had  pattered  the  flash  to  all  his 
wretched  accomplices,  there  was  no  trace  of  the  last 
dying  speech  in  his  final  utterances,  and  he  set  an 
example  of  a  simple  greatness,  worthy  to  be  followed 
even  to  the  end  of  time.  Such  is  the  type,  but  others 
also  have  given  proof  of  a  serene  temper.  Tom 
Austin's  masterpiece  was  in  another  kind,  but  it  was 
none  the  less  a  masterpiece.  At  the  very  moment 
that  the  halter  was  being  put  about  his  neck,  he  was 
asked  by  the  Chaplain  what  he  had  to  say  before  he 
died.  "Only,"  says  he,  ''there's  a  woman  yonder 
with  some  curds  and  whey,  and  I  wish  I  could  have  a 
pennyworth  of  them  before  I  am  hanged,  because  I 
don't  know  when  I  shall  see  any  again."  There  is  a 
brave  irrelevance  in  this  very  human  desire,  which  is 
beyond  praise. 

Valiant  also  was  the  conduct  of  Roderick  Audrey, 
who  after  a  brief  but  brilliant  career  paid  his  last  debt 
to  the  law  in  17 14.  He  was  but  sixteen,  and,  says  his 
biographer,  "he  went  very  decent  to  the  gallows,  being 
in  a  white  waistcoat,  clean  napkin,  white  gloves,  and 
an  orange  in  one  hand."     So  well  did  he  play  his  part, 


GLORY  UNDESERVED  21 

that  one  wonders  Jack  Ketch  did  not  shrink  from 
the  performance  of  his.  But  throughout  his  short 
Hfe,  Roderick  Audrey — the  very  name  is  an  echo  of 
romance  ! — displayed  a  contempt  for  whatever  was  com- 
mon or  ugly.  Not  only  was  his  appearance  at  Tyburn 
a  lesson  in  elegance,  but  he  thieved,  as  none  ever 
thieved  before  or  since,  with  no  other  accomplice  than 
a  singing-bird.  Thus  he  would  play  outside  a  house, 
wherein  he  espied  a  sideboard  of  plate,  and  at  last, 
bidding  his  playmate  flutter  through  an  open  window 
into  the  parlour,  he  would  follow  upon  the  excuse  of 
recovery,  and,  once  admitted,  would  carry  off  as  much 
silver  as  he  could  conceal.  None  other  ever  attempted 
so  graceful  an  artifice,  and  yet  Audrey's  journey  to 
Tyburn  is  even  more  memorable  than  the  story  of  his 
gay  accomplice. 

But  it  is  not  only  the  truly  great  who  have  won  for 
themselves  an  enduring  reputation.  There  are  men, 
not  a  few,  esteemed,  like  the  popular  novelist,  not  for 
their  art  but  for  some  foolish  gift,  some  facile  trick  of 
notoriety,  whose  actions  have  tickled  the  fancy,  not  the 
understanding  of  the  world.  The  coward  and  the  im- 
postor have  been  set  upon  a  pedestal  of  glory  either  by 
accident  or  by  the  whim  of  posterity.  For  more  than 
a  century  Dick  Turpin  has  appeared  not  so  much  the 
greatest  of  highway  men,  as  the  Highwayman  Incarnate. 
His  prowess  has  been  extolled  in  novels  and  upon  the 
stage ;  his  ride  to  York  is  still  bepraised  for  a  feat  of 
miraculous  courage  and  endurance ;  the  death  of  Black 
Bess  has  drawn  floods  of  tears  down  the  most  callous 


22  INTRODUCTION 

cheeks.  And  the  truth  is  that  Turpin  was  never  a 
gentleman  of  the  road  at  all !  Black  Bess  is  as  pure  an 
invention  as  the  famous  ride  to  York.  The  ruffian, 
who  is  said  to  have  ridden  the  phantom  mare  from  one 
end  of  England  to  the  other,  was  a  common  butcher, 
who  burned  an  old  woman  to  death  at  Epping,  and 
was  very  properly  hanged  at  York  for  the  stealing  of  a 
horse  which  he  dared  not  bestride. 

Not  one  incident  in  his  career  gives  colour  to  the 
splendid  myth  which  has  been  woven  round  his  memory. 
Once  he  was  in  London,  and  he  died  at  York.  So 
much  is  true  ;  but  there  is  naught  to  prove  that  his 
progress  from  the  one  town  to  the  other  did  not  occupy 
a  year.  Nor  is  there  any  reason,  why  the  halo  should 
have  been  set  upon  his  head  rather  than  upon  another's. 
Strangest  truth  of  all,  none  knows  at  what  moment 
Dick  Turpin  first  shone  into  glory.  At  any  rate,  there 
is  a  gap  in  the  tradition,  and  the  chap-books  of  the  time 
may  not  be  credited  with  this  vulgar  error.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  popular  drama  of  Skelt  which  put  the  ruffian 
upon  the  black  mare's  back;  but  whatever  the  date 
of  the  invention,  Turpin  was  a  popular  hero  long 
before  Ainsworth  sent  him  rattling  across  England. 
And  in  order  to  equip  this  butcher  with  a  false  reputa- 
tion, a  valiant  officer  and  gentleman  was  stripped  of 
the  credit  due  to  a  magnificent  achievement.  For 
though  Turpin  tramped  to  York  at  a  journeyman's 
leisure,  Nicks  rode  thither  at  a  stretch — Nicks  the 
intrepid  and  gallant,  whom  Charles  II.,  in  admiration 
of  his  feat,  was  wont  to  call  Swiftnicks. 


THE  MYTH  OF  DICK  TURPIN       23 

This  valiant  collector,  whom  posterity  has  robbed  for 
Turpin's  embellishment,  lived  at  the  highest  moment 
of  his  art.  He  knew  by  rote  the  lessons  taught  by 
Hind  and  Duval ;  he  was  a  fearless  rider  and  a 
courteous  thief.  Now,  one  morning  at  five  of  the 
clock,  he  robbed  a  gentleman  near  Barnet  of  ;^56o, 
and  riding  straight  for  York,  he  appeared  on  the 
Bowling  Green  at  six  in  the  evening.  Being  pre- 
sently recognised  by  his  victim,  he  was  apprehended, 
and  at  the  trial  which  followed  he  pleaded  a  triumph- 
ant alibi.  But  vanity  was  too  strong  for  discretion, 
and  no  sooner  was  Swiftnicks  out  of  danger,  than 
he  boasted,  as  well  he  might,  of  his  splendid 
courage.  Forthwith  he  appeared  a  popular  hero, 
obtained  a  commission  in  Lord  Mon castle's  regiment, 
and  married  a  fortune.  And  then  came  Turpin  to 
filch  his  glory  !  Nor  need  Turpin  have  stooped  to  a 
vicarious  notoriety,  for  he  possessed  a  certain  rough, 
half-conscious  humour,  which  was  not  despicable.  He 
purchased  a  new  fustian  coat  and  a  pair  of  pumps,  in 
which  to  be  hanged,  and  he  hired  five  poor  men  at  ten 
shillings  the  day,  that  his  death  might  not  go  un- 
mourned.  But,  above  all,  he  was  distinguished  in  prison. 
A  crowd  thronged  his  cell  to  identify  him,  and  one  there 
was  who  offered  to  bet  the  keeper  half  a  guinea  that 
the  prisoner  was  not  Turpin ;  whereupon  Turpin  whis- 
pered the  keeper,  "  Lay  him  the  wager,  you  fool,  and 
I  will  go  you  halves."  Surely  this  impudent  indiffer- 
ence might  have  kept  green  the  memory  of  the  man 
who  never  rode  to  York  ! 


24  INTRODUCTION 

But  if  the  Scoundrel  may  claim  distinction  on  many- 
grounds,  his  character  is  singularly  uniform.  To  the 
anthropologist  he  might  well  appear  the  survival  of  a 
savage  race,  and  savage  also  are  his  manifold  super- 
stitions. He  is  a  creature  of  times  and  seasons.  He 
chooses  the  occasion  of  his  deeds  vi^ith  as  scrupulous  a 
care  as  he  examines  his  formidable  crovi^bars  and 
jemmies.  At  certain  hours  he  w^ould  refrain  from 
action,  though  every  circumstance  favoured  his  success : 
he  would  rather  obey  the  restraining  voice  of  a  wise, 
unreasoning  wizardry,  than  fill  his  pockets  with  the 
gold  for  which  his  human  soul  is  ever  hungry.  There 
is  no  law  of  man  he  dares  not  break,  but  he  shrinks  in 
horror  from  the  infringement  of  the  unwritten  rules 
of  savagery.  Though  he  might  cut  a  throat  in  self- 
defence,  he  would  never  walk  under  a  ladder  ;  and  if 
the  13th  fell  on  a  Friday,  he  would  starve  that  day 
rather  than  obtain  a  loaf  by  the  method  he  best  under- 
.  stands.  He  consults  the  omens  with  as  patient  a 
'  divination  as  the  augurs  of  old  ;  and  so  long  as  he 
carries  an  amulet  in  his  pocket,  though  it  be  but  a 
pebble  or  a  polished  nut,  he  is  filled  with  an  irresistible 
courage.*  For  him  the  worst  terror  of  all  is  the  evil 
eye,  and  he  would  rather  be  hanged  by  an  unsuspected 
judge  than  receive  an  easy  stretch  from  one  whose 
glance  he  dared  not  face.  And  while  the  anthro- 
pologist claims  him  for  a  savage,  whose  civilisation 
has  been  arrested  at  brotherhood  with  the  Solomon 
Islanders,  the  politician  might  pronounce  him  a  true 
•  See  LeUnd's  **  Gypsy  Sorcery." 


THE  SCOUNDREL'S  CHARACTER   25 

communist,  in  that  he  has  preserved  a  wholesome 
contempt  of  property  and  civic  life.  The  prig,  again, 
would  feel  his  bumps,  prescribe  a  gentle  course  of 
bromide,  and  hope  to  cure  all  the  sins  of  the  world  by 
a  municipal  Turkish  bath.  But  the  wise  man,  re- 
specting his  superstitions,  is  content  to  take  him  as 
he  finds  him,  and  to  deduce  his  character  from  his 
very  candid  history,  which  is  unaffected  by  prig  or 
politician. 

Before  all  things,  he  is  sanguine  j  he  believes 
that  Chance,  the  great  god  of  his  endeavour, 
fights  upon  his  side.  Whatever  is  lacking  to-day, 
to-morrow's  enterprise  will  fulfil,  and  if  only  the 
omens  be  favourable,  he  fears  neither  detection  nor 
the  gallows.  His  courage  proceeds  from  this  sanguine 
temperament,  strengthened  by  shame  and  tradition 
rather  than  from  a  self-controlled  magnanimity;  he 
hopes  until  despair  is  inevitable,  and  then  walks  firmly 
to  the  gallows,  that  no  comrade  may  suspect  the 
white  feather.  His  ambition,  too,  is  the  ambition  of 
the  savage  or  of  the  child ;  he  despises  such  immaterial 
advantages  as  power  and  influence,  being  perfectly  con- 
tent if  he  have  a  smart  coat  on  his  back  and  a  bottle 
of  wine  at  his  elbow.  He  would  rather  pick  a  lock  than 
batter  a  constitution,  and  the  world  would  "be  well  lost, 
so  he  and  his  doxy  might  survey  the  ruin  in  comfort. 

But  if  his  ambition  be  modest,  his  love  of  notoriety 
is  boundless.  He  must  be  famous,  his  name  must  be 
in  the  mouths  of  men,  he  must  be  immortal  (for  a 
week)  in  a  rough  woodcut.     And  then,  what  matters 


26  INTRODUCTION 

it  how  soon  the  end  ?  His  braveries  have  been  hawked 
in  the  street ;  his  prowess  has  sold  a  Special  Edition  ; 
he  is  the  first  of  his  race,  until  a  luckier  rival  eclipses 
him.  Thus,  also,  his  dandyism  is  inevitable  :  it  is 
not  enough  for  him  to  cover  his  nakedness — he  must 
dress  j  and  though  his  taste  is  sometimes  unbridled, 
it  is  never  insignificant.  Indeed,  his  biographers  have 
recorded  the  expression  of  his  fancy  in  coats  and  small- 
clothes as  patiently  and  enthusiastically  as  they  have 
applauded  his  courage.  And  truly  the  love  of  magni- 
ficence, which  he  shares  with  all  artists,  is  sincere  and 
characteristic.      When    an    accomplice    of   Jonathan 

Wild's  robbed  Lady  M n  at  Windsor,  his  equipage 

cost  him  forty  pounds  ;  and  Nan  Hereford  was  arrested 
for  shoplifting  at  the  very  moment  that  four  footmen 
awaited  her  return  with  an  elegant  sedan-chair. 

His  vanity  makes  him  but  a  prudish  lover,  who  desires 
to  woo  less  than  to  be  wooed  ;  and  at  all  times  and 
through  all  moods  he  remains  the  primeval  sentiment- 
alist. He  will  detach  his  life  entirely  from  the  catch- 
words which  pretend  to  govern  his  actions  ;  he  will 
sit  and  croon  the  most  heartrending  ditties  in  cele- 
bration of  home-life  and  a  mother's  love,  and  then  set 
forth  incontinently  upon  a  well-planned  errand  of 
plunder.  For  all  his  artistry,  he  lacks  balance  as 
flagrantly  as  a  popular  politician  or  an  advanced 
journalist.  Therefore  it  is  the  more  remarkable  that 
in  one  point  he  displays  a  certain  caution  :  he  boggles 
at  a  superfluous  murder.  For  all  his  contempt  of 
property,  he  still  preserves  a  respect  for  life,  and  the 


THE  CHAP-BOOKS  27 

least  suspicion  of  unnecessary  brutality  sets  not  only 
the  law  but  his  own  fellows  against  him.  Like  all 
men  whose  god  is  Opportunity,  he  is  a  reckless 
gambler  3  and,  like  all  gamblers,  he  is  monstrously 
extravagant.  In  brief,  he  is  a  tangle  of  picturesque 
qualities,  which,  until  our  own  generation,  was  in- 
capable of  nothing  save  dulness. 

The  Bible  and  the  Newgate  Calendar — these  twain 
were  George  Barrow's  favourite  reading,  and  all  save 
the  psychologist  and  the  prig  will  applaud  the  pre- 
ference. For  the  annals  of  the  "family"  are  dis- 
tinguished by  an  epic  severity,  a  fearless  directness  of 
speech,  which  you  will  hardly  match  outside  the  Iliad 
or  the  Chronicles  of  the  Kings.  But  the  Newgate 
Calendar  did  not  spring  ready-made  into  being  ;  it  is 
the  result  of  a  curious  and  gradual  development.  The 
chap-books  came  first,  with  their  bold  type,  their 
coarse  paper,  and  their  clumsy,  characteristic  wood- 
cuts— the  chap-books,  which  none  can  contemplate 
without  an  enchanted  sentiment.  Here  at  last  you 
come  upon  a  literature,  which  has  been  read  to 
pieces.  The  very  rarity  of  the  slim,  rough  volumes, 
proves  that  they  have  been  handed  from  one  greedy 
reader  to  another,  until  the  great  libraries  alone  are 
rich  enough  to  harbour  them.  They  do  not  boast  the 
careful  elegance  of  a  famous  press  :  many  of  them 
came  from  the  printing-office  of  a  country  town  :  yet 
the  least  has  a  simplicity  and  concision,  which  are 
unknown  in  this  age  of  popular  fiction.  Even  their 
lack   of  invention  is  admirable  :  as   the  same  wood- 


28  INTRODUCTION 

cut  might  be  used  to  represent  Guy,  Earl  of  Warwick, 
or  the  last  highwayman  who  suffered  at  Tyburn,  so 
the  same  enterprise  is  ascribed  with  a  delightful  in- 
genuousness to  all  the  heroes  who  rode  abroad  under 
the  stars  to  fill  their  pockets. 

The  Life  and  Death  of  Gamaliel  Ratsey  delighted 
England  in  1605,  and  was  the  example  of  after  ages. 
The  anecdote  of  the  road  was  already  crystallised,  and 
henceforth  the  robber  was  unable  to  act  contrary  to 
the  will  of  the  chap-book.  Thus  there  grew  up  a  folk- 
lore of  thievery :  the  very  insistence  upon  the  same 
motive  suggests  the  fairy-tale,  and,  as  in  the  legends  of 
every  country,  there  is  an  identical  element  which  the 
pedants  call  "  human  "  ;  so  in  the  annals  of  adventure 
there  is  a  set  of  invariable  incidents,  which  are  the 
essentials  of  thievery.  The  industrious  hacks,  to  whom 
we  owe  the  entertainment  of  the  chap-books,  being 
seedy  parsons  or  lawyer's  clerks,  were  conscious  of  their 
literary  deficiencies  :  they  preferred  to  obey  tradition 
rather  than  to  invent  ineptitudes.  So  you  may  trace 
the  same  jest,  the  same  intrigue  through  the  un- 
numbered lives  of  three  centuries.  And  if,  being  a 
philosopher,  you  neglect  the  obvious  plagiarism,  you 
may  induce  from  these  similarities  a  cunning  theory 
concerning  the  uniformity  of  the  human  brain.  But 
the  easier  explanation  is,  as  always,  the  more  satis- 
factory ;  and  there  is  little  doubt  that  in  versatility  the 
thief  surpassed  his  historian. 

Had  the  chap-books  been  still  scattered  in  dis- 
regarded corners,  they  would  have  been  unknown  or 


CAPTAIN  ALEXANDER  SMITH       29 

misunderstood.  But,  happily,  a  man  of  genius  came 
in  the  nick  to  convert  them  into  as  vivid  and  sparkling 
a  piece  of  literature  as  the  time  could  show.  This 
was  Captain  Alexander  Smith,  whose  Lives  of  the 
Highwaymen^  published  in  17 19,  was  properly  de- 
scribed by  its  author  as  "the  first  impartial  piece  of 
this  nature  which  ever  appeared  in  English."  Now, 
Captain  Smith  inherited  from  a  nameless  father  no 
other  patrimony  than  a  fierce  loyalty  to  the  Stuarts, 
and  the  sanguine  temperament  which  views  in  horror 
a  well-ordered  life.  Though  a  mere  foundling,  he 
managed  to  acquire  the  rudiments,  and  he  was  not 
wholly  unlettered  when  at  eighteen  he  took  to  the 
road.  His  courage,  fortified  by  an  intimate  know- 
ledge of  the  great  tradition,  was  rewarded  by  an 
immediate  success,  and  he  rapidly  became  the  master 
of  so  much  leisure  as  enabled  him  to  pursue  his  studies 
with  pleasure  and  distinction.  When  his  companions 
damned  him  for  a  milksop,  he  was  loftily  contemptuous, 
conscious  that  it  was  not  in  intelligence  alone  that  he 
was  their  superior.  While  the  Stuarts  were  the  gods 
of  his  idolatry,  while  the  Regicides  were  the  fiends  of 
his  frank  abhorrence,  it  was  from  the  Elizabethans 
that  he  caught  the  splendid  vigour  of  his  style ;  and  he 
owed  not  only  his  historical  sense,  but "  his  living 
EngHsh  to  the  example  of  Philemon  Holland.  More- 
over, it  is  to  his  constant  glory  that,  living  at  a  time 
that  preferred  as  well  to  attenuate  the  English  tongue 
as  to  degrade  the  profession  of  the  highway,  he  not 
only  rode  abroad  with  a  fearless  courtesy,  but  handled 


30  INTRODUCTION 

his   own   language  with  the   force  and   spirit  of  an 
earlier  age. 

He  wrote  with  the  authority  of  courage  and  expe- 
rience. A  hazardous  career  had  driven  envy  and  malice 
from  his  dauntless  breast.  Though  he  confesses  a 
debt  to  certain  *'  learned  and  eminent  divines  of  the 
Church  of  England,"  he  owed  a  greater  debt  to  his 
own  observation,  and  he  knew — none  better — how  to 
recognise  with  enthusiasm  those  deeds  of  daring  which 
only  himself  has  rivalled.  A  master  of  etiquette,  he 
distributed  approval  and  censure  with  impartial  hand ; 
and  he  was  quick  to  condemn  the  smallest  infrac- 
tion of  an  ancient  law.  Nor  was  he  insensible  to 
the  dignity  of  history.  The  best  models  were  always 
before  him.  With  admirable  zeal  he  studied  the  manner 
of  such  masters  as  Thucydides  and  Titus  Livius  of 
Padua.  Above  all,  he  realised  the  importance  of  set- 
ting appropriate  speeches  in  the  mouths  of  his 
characters  ;  and,  permitting  his  heroes  to  speak  for 
themselves,  he  imparted  to  his  work  an  irresistible  air 
of  reality  and  good  faith.  His  style,  always  studied, 
was  neither  too  low  nor  too  high  for  his  subject.  An 
ill-balanced  sentence  was  as  hateful  to  him  as  a  foul 
thrust  or  a  stolen  advantage. 

Abroad  a  craftsman,  he  carried  into  the  closet  the 
skill  and  energy  which  distinguished  him  when  the 
moon  was  on  the  heath.  Though  not  born  to  the 
arts  of  peace,  he  was  determined  to  prove  his  respect 
for  letters,  and  his  masterpiece  is  no  less  pompous  in 
manner  than  it  is  estimable   in   tone   and  sound  in 


HIS  VIEW  OF  ROBBERY  31 

reflection.  He  handled  slang  as  one  who  knew  its 
limits  and  possibilities,  employing  it  not  for  the  sake 
of  eccentricity,  but  to  give  the  proper  colour  and 
sparkle  to  his  page  ;  indeed,  his  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  vagabonds  of  speech  enabled  him  to  compile 
a  dictionary  of  Pedlar's  French,  which  has  been  pil- 
fered by  a  whole  battalion  of  imitators.  Moreover, 
there  was  none  of  the  proverbs  of  the  pavement,  those 
first  cousins  of  slang,  that  escaped  him ;  and  he  assumed 
all  the  license  of  the  gentleman-collector  in  the  treat- 
ment of  his  love-passages. 

Captain  Smith  took  the  justest  view  of  his  subject. 
For  him  robbery,  in  the  street  as  on  the  highway, 
was  the  finest  of  the  arts,  and  he  always  revered  it 
for  its  own  sake  rather  than  for  vulgar  profit. 
Though,  to  deceive  the  public,  he  abhorred  villainy 
in  word,  he  never  concealed  his  admiration  in  deed 
of  a  "highwayman  who  robs  like  a  gentleman.'* 
"  There  is  a  beauty  in  all  the  works  of  nature,"  he 
observes  in  one  of  his  wittiest  exordia,  "  which  we 
are  unable  to  define,  though  all  the  world  is  convinced 
of  its  existence :  so  in  every  action  and  station  of 
life  there  is  a  grace  to  be  attained,  which  will  make 
a  man  pleasing  to  all  about  him  and  serene  in  his  own 
mind."  Some  there  are,  he  continues,  ^who  have 
placed  "this  beauty  in  vice  itself;  otherwise  it  is 
hardly  probable  that  they  could  commit  so  many 
irregularities  with  a  strong  gust  and  an  appearance 
of  satisfaction."  Notwithstanding  that  the  word 
"  vice  "  is  used  in  its  conventional  sense,  we  have  here 


32  INTRODUCTION 

the  key  to  Captain  Smith's  position.  He  judged  his 
heroes'  achievements  with  the  intelligent  impartiality 
of  a  connoisseur,  and  he  permitted  no  other  prejudice 
than  an  unfailing  loyalty  to  interrupt  his  opinion. 

Though  he  loved  good  English  as  he  loved  good 
wine,  he  was  never  so  happy  as  when  (in  imagination) 
he  was  tying  the  legs  of  a  Regicide  under  the  belly  of 
an  ass.  And  when  in  the  manner  of  a  bookseller's 
hack  he  compiled  a  Comical  and  Tragical  History 
of  the  Lives  and  Adventures  of  the  most  noted  Bayliffs^ 
his  adoration  of  the  Royalists  persuaded  him  to 
miss  his  chance.  So  brave  a  spirit  as  himself  should 
not  have  looked  complacently  upon  the  officers  of  the 
law,  but  he  saw  in  the  glorification  of  the  baylifF 
another  chance  of  castigating  the  Roundheads,  and  thus 
he  set  an  honorific  crown  upon  the  brow  of  man's 
natural  enemy.  "These  unsanctified  rascals,"  wrote 
he,  "  would  run  into  any  man's  debt  without  paying 
him,  and  if  their  creditors  were  Cavaliers  they  thought 
they  had  as  much  right  to  cheat  'em,  as  the  Israelites 
had  to  spoil  the  Egyptians  of  their  ear-rings  and 
jewels."  Alas !  the  boot  was  ever  on  the  other 
leg ;  and  yet  you  cannot  but  admire  the  Captain's 
valiant  determination  to  sacrifice  probability  to  his 
legitimate  hate. 

Of  his  declining  years  and  death  there  is  no 
record.  But  one  likes  to  think  of  him  released  from 
care,  and  surrounded  by  books,  flowers,  and  the  good 
things  of  this  earth.  Now  and  again,  maybe,  he 
would   muse  on   the  stirring    deeds    of   his    youth, 


CAPTAIN  CHARLES  JOHNSON        33 

and  more  often  he  would  put  away  the  memory 
of  action  to  delight  in  the  masterpiece  which  made 
him  immortal.  He  would  recall  with  pleasure,  no 
doubt,  the  ready  praise  of  Richard  Steele,  his  most 
appreciative  reviewer,  and  smile  contemptuously  at 
the  baseness  of  his  friend  and  successor.  Captain 
Charles  Johnson.  Now,  this  ingenious  writer  was 
wont  to  boast,  when  the  ale  of  Fleet  Steeet  had  em- 
purpled his  nose,  that  he  was  the  most  intrepid  high- 
wayman of  them  all.  *'  Once  upon  a  time,"  he  would 
shout,  with  an  arrogant  gesture,  "  I  was  known  from 
Blackheath  to  Hounslow,  from  Ware  to  Shooter's 
Hill."  But  the  truth  is,  the  only  "crime"  he  ever 
committed  was  plagiarism.  The  self-assumed  title  of 
Captain  should  have  deceived  nobody,  for  the  braggart 
never  stole  anything  more  difficult  of  acquisition  than 
another  man's  words.  He  picked  brains,  not  pockets  j 
he  committed  the  greater  sin  and  ran  no  risk.  He 
helped  himself  to  the  admirable  inventions  of  Captain 
Smith  without  apology  or  acknowledgment,  and  as 
though  to  lighten  the  dead-weight  of  his  sin,  he  never 
skipped  an  opportunity  of  maligning  his  victim.  Again 
and  again  in  the  very  act  to  steal  he  will  declare  vain- 
gloriously  that  Captain  Smith's  stories  are  "  barefaced 
inventions."  But  doubt  was  no  check  to  "the  habit 
of  plunder,  and  you  knew  that  at  every  reproach, 
expressed  (so  to  say)  in  self-defence,  he  plied  the 
scissors  with  the  greater  energy.  The  most  cunning 
theft  is  the  tag  which  adorns  the  title-page  of  his 
book : 

c 


34  INTRODUCTION 

Little  villains  oft  submit  to  fate 

That  great  ones  may  enjoy  the  world  in  state. 

Thus  he  quotes  from  Gay,  and  you  applaud  the  aptness 
of  the  quotation,  until  you  discover  that  already  it  was 
used  by  Steele  in  his  appreciation  of  the  heroic  Smith ! 
However,  Johnson  has  his  uses,  and  those  to  whom  the 
masterpiece  of  Captain  Alexander  is  inaccessible  will 
turn  with  pleasure  to  the  General  History  of  the 
Lives  and  Adventures  of  the  most  Famous  Highway- 
men^ Murderers^  Street-Robbers^  &c.,  and  will  feel 
no  regret  that  for  once  they  are  receiving  stolen 
goods. 

Though  Johnson  fell  immeasurably  below  his  prede- 
cessor in  talent,  he  manifestly  excelled  him  in  scholar- 
ship. A  sojourn  at  the  University  had  supplied  him 
with  a  fine  assortment  of  Latin  tags,  and  he  delighted 
to  prove  his  erudition  by  the  citation  of  the  Chronicles. 
Had  he  possessed  a  sense  of  humour,  he  might  have 
smiled  at  the  irony  of  committing  a  theft  upon  the  his- 
torian of  thieves.  But  he  was  too  vain  and  too  pompous 
to  smile  at  his  own  weakness,  and  thus  he  would 
pretend  himself  a  venturesome  highwayman,  a  brave 
writer,  and  a  profound  scholar.  Indeed,  so  far  did  his 
pride  carry  him,  that  he  would  have  the  world  believe 
him  the  same  Charles  Johnson,  who  wrote  The  Gentle- 
man Cully  and  17?e  Successful  Pyrate.  Thus  with  a 
boastful  chuckle  he  would  quote  : 

Johnson,  who  now  to  sense,  now  nonsense  leaning, 
Means  not,  but  blunders  round  about  a  meaning. 


THE  NEWGATE  CALENDAR         35 

Thus,  ignoring  the  insult,  he  would  plume  himself 
after  his  drunken  fashion  that  he,  too,  was  an  enemy 
of  Pope. 

Yet  Johnson  has  remained  an  example.  For  the 
literature  of  scoundrelism  is  as  persistent  in  its  form 
as  in  its  folk-lore.  As  Harman's  Caveat^  which  first 
saw  the  light  in  1566,  serves  as  a  model  to  an  un- 
broken series  of  such  books,  as  The  London  Spy,  so  from 
Johnson  in  due  course  were  developed  the  Newgate 
Calendar^  and  those  innumerable  records,  which  the 
latter  half  of  the  Eighteenth  Century  furnished  us 
forth.  The  celebrated  Calendar  was  in  its  origin  no- 
thing more  than  a  list  of  prisoners  printed  in  a  folio 
slip.  But  thereafter  it  became  the  Malefactors'  Bloody 
Register^  which  we  know.  Its  plan  and  purpose  were 
to  improve  the  occasion.  The  thief  is  no  longer 
esteemed  for  an  artist  or  appraised  upon  his  merits :  he 
is  the  awful  warning,  which  shall  lead  the  sinner  to 
repentance.  "  Here,"  says  the  preface,  "  the  giddy 
thoughtless  youth  may  see  as  in  a  mirror  the  fatal 
consequences  of  deviating  from  virtue  "j  here  he  may 
tremble  at  the  discovery  that  *'  often  the  best  talents  are 
prostituted  to  the  basest  purposes."  But  in  spite  of 
*'the  proper  reflections  of  the  whole  affair,"  the 
famous  Calendar  deserved  the  praise  of  Borrdw.  There 
is  a  directness  in  the  narration,  which  captures  all 
those  for  whom  life  and  literature  are  something  better 
than  psychologic  formulas.  Moreover,  the  motives 
which  drive  the  brigand  to  his  doom  are  brutal  in  their 
simplicity,  and  withal  as  genuine  and  sincere  as  greed. 


36  INTRODUCTION 

vanity,  and  lust  can  make  them.  The  true  amateur 
takes  pleasure  even  in  the  pious  exhortations,  because 
he  knows  that  they  crawl  into  their  place,  lest  the 
hypocrite  be  scandalised.  But  with  years  the  Newgate 
Calendar  also  declined,  and  at  last  it  has  followed  other 
dead  literatures  into  the  night. 

Meanwhile  the  broadsheet  had  enjoyed  an  unbroken 
and  prosperous  career.  Up  and  down  London,  up  and 
down  England,  hurried  the  Patterer  or  Flying  Stationer. 
There  was  no  murder,  no  theft,  no  conspiracy,  which 
did  not  tempt  the  Gutter  Muse  to  doggerel.  But  it 
was  not  until  James  Catnach  came  up  from  Alnwick 
to  London  (in  1813),  that  the  trade  reached  the  top 
of  its  prosperity.  The  vast  sheets,  which  he  published 
with  their  scurvy  couplets,  and  the  admirable  wood- 
cut, serving  in  ife  time  for  a  hundred  executions,  have 
not  lost  their  power  to  fascinate.  Theirs  is  the  aspect 
of  the  early  woodcut ;  the  coarse-cut  type  and  the 
catchpenny  headlines  are  a  perpetual  delight ;  as  you 
unfold  them,  your  care  keeps  pace  with  your  admira- 
tion ;  and  you  cannot  feel  them  crackle  beneath  your 
hand  without  enthusiasm  and  without  regret.  He  was 
no  pedant — Jemmy  Catnach ;  and  the  image  of  his 
ruffians  was  commonly  as  far  from  portraiture,  as  his 
verses  were  remote  from  poetry.  But  he  put  together  in 
a  roughly  artistic  shape  the  last  murder,  robbery,  or 
scandal  of  the  day.  His  masterpieces  were  far  too 
popular  to  live,  and  if  they  knew  so  vast  a  circulation  as 
2,500,000  they  are  hard  indeed  to  come  by.  And  now 
the  art  is  well-nigh  dead  ;  though  you  may  discover 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  BROADSHEET   37 

an  infrequent  survival  in  a  country  town.  But  how 
should  Catnach,  were  he  alive  to-day,  compete  with  the 
Special  Edition  of  an  evening  print  ? 

The  decline  of  the  Scoundrel,  in  fact,  has  been  fol- 
lowed by  the  disappearance  of  chap-book  and  broad- 
sheet. The  Education  Act,  which  made  the  cheap 
novel  a  necessity,  destroyed  at  a  blow  the  literature 
of  the  street.  Since  the  highwayman  wandered,  fur- 
coated,  into  the  City,  the  patterer  has  lost  his  occu- 
pation. Robbery  and  murder  have  degenerated  into 
Chinese  puzzles,  whose  solution  is  a  pleasant  irritant 
to  the  idle  brain.  The  misunderstanding  of  Poe  has 
produced  a  vast  polyglot  literature,  for  which  one 
would  not  give  in  exchange  a  single  chapter  of  Captain 
Smith.  Vautrin  and  Bill  Sykes  are  already  discredited, 
and  it  is  a  false  reflection  of  M.  Dupin,  which  dazzles 
the  eye  of  a  moral  and  unimaginative  world.  Yet  the 
wise  man  sighs  for  those  fearless  days,  when  the 
brilliant  Macheath  rode  vizarded  down  Shooter's  Hill, 
and  presently  saw  his  exploits  set  forth,  with  the 
proper  accompaniment  of  a  renowned  and  ancient 
woodcut,  upon  a  penny  broadsheet. 


CAPTAIN   HIND 


CAPTAIN    HIND 

JAMES  HIND,  the  Master  Thief  of  England, 
the  fearless  Captain  of  the  Highway,  was  born 
at  Chipping  Norton  in  1618.  His  father,  a  simple 
saddler,  had  so  poor  an  appreciation  of  his  son's  magna- 
nimity, that  he  apprenticed  him  to  a  butcher;  but 
Hind's  destiny  was  to  embrue  his  hands  in  other  than 
the  blood  of  oxen,  and  he  had  not  long  endured  the 
restraint  of  this  common  craft  when  forty  shillings, 
the  gift  of  his  mother,  purchased  him  an  escape,  and 
carried  him  triumphant  and  ambitious  to  London. 

Even  in  his  negligent  schooldays  he  had  fastened 
upon  a  fitting  career.  A  born  adventurer,  he  sought 
only  enterprise  and  command  :  if  a  commission  in  the 
army  failed  him,  then  he  would  risk  his  neck  upon 
the  road,  levying  his  own  tax  and  imposing  his  own 
conditions.  To  one  of  his  dauntless  resolution  an 
opportunity  need  never  have  lacked  ;  yet"  he  owed 
his  first  preferment  to  a  happy  accident.  Surprised 
one  evening  in  a  drunken  brawl,  he  was  hustled 
into  the  Poultry  Counter,  and  there  made  acquaint- 
ance over  a  fresh  bottle  with  Robert  Allen,  one  of  the 
chief   rogues  in  the   Park,  and    a   ruffian,  who  had 


42  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

mastered  every  trick  in  the  game  of  plunder.  A 
dexterous  cly-faker,  an  intrepid  blade,  Allen  had  also 
the  keenest  eye  for  untested  talent,  and  he  detected 
Hind's  shining  qualities  after  the  first  glass.  No  sooner 
had  they  paid  the  price  of  release,  than  Hind  was  ad- 
mitted of  his  comrade's  gang  ;  he  took  the  oath  of 
fealty,  and  by  way  of  winning  his  spurs  was  bid  to  hold 
up  a  traveller  on  Shooter's  Hill.  Granted  his  choice  of 
a  mount,  he  straightway  took  the  finest  in  the  stable, 
with  that  keen  perception  of  horse-flesh  which  never 
deserted  him,  and  he  confronted  his  first  victim  in  the 
liveliest  of  humours.  There  was  no  falter  in  his  voice, 
no  hint  of  inexperience  in  his  manner,  when  he  shouted 
the  battle-cry  :  ''  Stand  and  deliver  " !  The  horseman, 
fearful  of  his  life,  instantly  surrendered  a  purse  of  ten 
sovereigns,  as  to  the  most  practised  assailant  on  the 
road.  Whereupon  Hind,  with  a  flourish  of  ancient 
courtesy,  gave  him  twenty  shillings  to  bear  his  charges. 
*'  This,"  said  he,  *'  is  for  handsale  sake  " ;  and  thus  they 
parted  in  mutual  compliment  and  content. 

Allen  was  overjoyed  at  his  novice's  prowess.  "  Did 
you  not  see,"  he  cried  to  his  companions,  "  how  he 
robbed  him  with  a  grace  ? "  And  well  did  the 
trooper  deserve  his  captain's  compliment,  for  his  art 
was  perfect  from  the  first.  In  bravery  as  in  gal- 
lantry he  knew  no  rival,  and  he  plundered  with  so 
elegant  a  style,  that  only  a  churlish  victim  could  resent 
the  extortion.  He  would  as  soon  have  turned  his  back 
upon  an  enemy  as  demand  a  purse  uncovered.  For 
every  man  he  had  a  quip,  for  every  woman  a  compli- 


CAPTAIN  HIND  43 

ment ;  nor  did  he  ever  conceal  the  truth  that  the  means 
were  for  him  as  important  as  the  end.  Though  he 
loved  money,  he  still  insisted  that  it  should  be  yielded 
in  freedom  and  good  temper  ;  and  while  he  emptied 
more  coaches  than  any  man  in  England,  he  was  never 
at  a  loss  for  admirers. 

Under  Allen  he  served  a  brilliant  apprenticeship. 
Enrolled  as  a  servant,  he  speedily  sat  at  the  master's 
right  hand,  and  his  nimble  brains  devised  many  a  pretty 
campaign.  For  a  while  success  dogged  the  horse- 
hoofs  of  the  gang  ;  with  wealth  came  immunity,  and 
not  one  of  the  warriors  had  the  misfortune  to  look  out 
upon  the  world  through  a  grate.  They  robbed  with 
dignity,  even  with  splendour.  Now  they  would  drive 
forth  in  a  coach  and  four,  carrying  with  them  a  whole 
armoury  of  offensive  weapons ;  now  they  would  take 
the  road  apparelled  as  noblemen,  and  attended  at  a  dis- 
creet distance  by  their  proper  servants.  But  recklessness 
brought  the  inevitable  disaster;  and  it  was  no  less  a 
personage  than  Oliver  Cromwell  who  overcame  the 
hitherto  invincible  Allen.  A  handful  of  the  gang 
attacked  Oliver  on  his  way  from  Huntingdon,  but  the 
marauders  were  outmatched,  and  the  most  of  them 
were  forced  to  surrender.  Allen,  taken  red-handed, 
swung  at  Tyburn,  but  Hind,  with  his  better  mount 
and  defter  horsemanship,  rode  clear  away. 

The  loss  of  his  friend  was  a  lesson  in  caution,  and 
henceforth  Hind  resolved  to  follow  his  craft  in 
solitude.  He  had  embellished  his  native  talent 
with   all    the   instruction    that    others   could    impart, 


44  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

and  he  reflected  that  he  who  rode  alone  neither 
ran  risk  of  discovery  nor  had  any  need  to  share 
his  booty.  Thus  he  begun  his  easy,  untrammelled 
career,  making  time  and  space  of  no  account  by  his 
rapid,  fearless  journeys.  Now  he  was  prancing  the 
moors  of  Yorkshire,  now  he  was  scouring  the  plain 
between  Gloucester  and  Tewkesbury,  but  wherever  he 
rode,  he  had  a  purse  in  his  pocket  and  a  jest  on  his 
tongue.  To  recall  his  prowess  is  to  ride  with  him  (in 
fancy)  under  the  open  sky  along  the  fair,  beaten  road ; 
to  put  up  with  him  at  the  white,  busy  posthouse,  to 
drink  unnumbered  pints  of  mulled  sack  with  the  round- 
bellied  landlord,  to  exchange  boastful  stories  over  the 
hospitable  fire,  and  to  ride  forth  in  the  morning  with 
the  joyous  uncertainty  of  travel  upon  you.  Failure 
alone  lay  outside  his  experience,  and  he  presently  be- 
came at  once  the  terror  and  the  hero  of  England. 

Not  only  was  his  courage  conspicuous  ;  luck  also 
was  his  constant  companion  j  and  a  happy  bewitchment 
protected  him  for  three  years  against  the  possibility  of 
harm.  He  had  been  lying  at  Hatfield,  at  the  George 
Inn,  and  set  out  in  the  early  morning  for  London.  As 
he  neared  the  town-gate,  an  old  beldame  begged  an 
alms  of  him,  and  though  Hind,  not  liking  her  ill- 
favoured  visage,  would  have  spurred  forward,  the  bel- 
dame's glittering  eye  held  his  horse  motionless.  "  Good 
woman,"  cried  Hind,  flinging  her  a  crown,  "  I  am  in 
haste  ;  pray  let  me  pass."  "  Sir,"  answered  the  witch, 
"  three  days  I  have  awaited  your  coming.  Would  you 
have  me  lose  my  labour  now  ?  "     And  with  Hind's 


CAPTAIN  HIND  45 

assent  the  sphinx  delivered  her  message  :  "  Captain 
Hind,"  said  she,  "  your  life  is  beset  with  constant 
danger,  and  since  from  your  birth  I  have  wished  you 
well,  my  poor  skill  has  devised  a  perfect  safeguard." 
With  this  she  gave  him  a  small  box  containing  what 
might  have  been  a  sundial  or  compass.  "  Watch 
this  star,"  quoth  she,  "  and  when  you  know  not 
your  road,  follow  its  guidance.  Thus  you  shall  be 
preserved  from  every  peril  for  the  space  of  three  years. 
Thereafter,  if  you  still  have  faith  in  my  devotion,  seek 
me  again,  and  I  will  renew  the  virtue  of  the  charm." 

Hind  took  the  box  joyfully  ;  but  when  he  turned 
to  murmur  a  word  of  gratitude,  the  witch  struck 
his  nag's  flanks  with  a  white  wand,  the  horse  leapt 
vehemently  forward,  and  Hind  saw  his  benefactress  no 
more.  Henceforth,  however,  a  warning  voice  spoke  to 
him  as  plainly  as  did  the  demon  to  Socrates  ;  and  had  he 
but  obeyed  the  beldame's  admonition,  he  might  have 
escaped  a  violent  death.  For  he  passed  the  last  day  of 
the  third  year  at  the  siege  of  Youghal,  where,  deprived 
of  happy  guidance,  he  was  seriously  wounded,  and 
whence  he  presently  regained  England  to  his  own 
undoing. 

So  long  as  he  kept  to  the  road,  his  life  was  one  long 
comedy.  His  wit  and  address  were  inexhaustible,  and 
fortune  never  found  him  at  a  loss.  He  would  avert 
suspicion  with  the  tune  of  a  psalm,  as  when,  habited 
like  a  pious  shepherd,  he  broke  a  traveller's  head  with 
his  crook,  and  deprived  him  of  his  horse.  An  early 
adventure  was  to  force  a  pot-valiant  parson,  who  had 


46  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

drunk  a  cup  too  much  at  a  wedding,  into  a  rarely 
farcical  situation.  Hind,  having  robbed  two  gentle- 
men's servants  of  a  round  sum,  went  ambling  along  the 
road  until  he  encountered  a  parson.  "Sir,"  said  he, 
*'  I  am  closely  pursued  by  robbers.  You,  I  dare  swear, 
will  not  stand  by  and  see  me  plundered."  Before  the 
parson  could  protest,  he  thrust  a  pistol  into  his  hand, 
and  bade  him  fire  it  at  the  first  comer,  while  he 
rode  ofF  to  raise  the  county.  Meanwhile  the  rifled 
travellers  came  up  with  the  parson,  who,  straightway, 
mistaking  them  for  thieves,  fired  without  effect,  and 
then,  riding  forward,  flung  the  pistol  in  the  face  of  the 
nearest.  Thus  the  parson  of  the  parish  was  dragged 
before  the  magistrate,  while  Hind,  before  his  dupe 
could  furnish  an  explanation,  had  placed  many  a  mile 
between  himself  and  his  adversary. 

But  though  he  could  on  occasion  show  a  clean  pair 
of  heels.  Hind  was  never  lacking  in  valiance ;  and, 
another  day,  meeting  a  traveller  with  a  hundred 
pounds  in  bis  pocket,  he  challenged  him  to  fight  there 
and  then,  staked  his  own  horse  against  the  money, 
and  declared  that  he  should  win  who  drew  first  blood. 
"  If  I  am  the  conqueror,"  said  the  magnanimous 
Captain,  *'  I  will  give  you  ten  pounds  for  your 
journey.  If  you  are  favoured  of  fortune,  you  shall 
give  me  your  servant's  horse."  The  terms  were 
instantly  accepted,  and  in  two  minutes  Hind  had  run 
his  adversary  through  the  sword-arm.  But  finding 
that  his  victim  was  but  a  poor  squire  going  to  London 
to   pay    his   composition,  he   not    only   returned   his 


CAPTAIN  HIND  47 

money,  but  sought  him  out  a  surgeon,  and  gave  him 
the  best  dinner  the  countryside  could  afford. 

Thus  it  was  his  pleasure  to  act  as  a  providence, 
many  a  time  robbing  Peter  to  pay  Paul,  and  strip- 
ping the  niggard  that  he  might  indulge  his  fervent 
love  of  generosity.  Of  all  usurers  and  bailiffs  he 
had  a  wholesome  horror,  and  merry  was  the  prank 
which  he  played  upon  the  extortionate  money- 
lender of  Warwick.  Riding  on  an  easy  rein  through 
the  town.  Hind  heard  a  tumult  at  a  street  corner, 
and  inquiring  the  cause,  was  told  that  an  inn- 
keeper was  arrested  by  a  thievish  usurer  for  a  paltry 
twenty  pounds.  Dismounting,  this  providence  in 
jack-boots  discharged  the  debt,  cancelled  the  bond,  and 
took  the  innkeeper's  goods  for  his  own  security.  And 
thereupon  overtaking  the  usurer,  "  My  friend  ! "  he 
exclaimed,  "  I  lent  you  late  a  sum  of  twenty  pounds. 
Repay  it  at  once,  or  I  take  your  miserable  life."  The 
usurer  was  obliged  to  return  the  money,  with  another 
twenty  for  interest,  and  when  he  would  take  the  law 
of  the  innkeeper,  was  shown  the  bond  duly  cancelled, 
and  was  flogged  well-nigh  to  death  for  his  pains. 

So  Hind  rode  the  world  up  and  down,  redressing 
grievances  like  an  Eastern  monarch,  and  rejoicing  in  the 
abasement  of  the  evildoer.  Nor  was  the  spirit  of  his 
adventure  bounded  by  the  ocean.  More  than  once  he 
crossed  the  seas  j  the  Hague  knew  him,  and  Amsterdam, 
though  these  somnolent  cities  gave  small  occasion  for 
the  display  of  his  talents.  It  was  from  Scilly  that  he 
crossed  to  the  Isle  of  Man,  where,  being  recommended 


48  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

to  Lord  Derby,  he  gained  high  favour,  and  received  in 
exchange  for  his  jests  a  comfortable  stipend.  Hitherto, 
said  the  Chronicles,  thieving  was  unknown  in  the 
island.  A  man  might  walk  whither  he  would,  a  bag 
of  gold  in  one  hand,  a  switch  in  the  other,  and  fear  no 
danger.  But  no  sooner  had  Hind  appeared  at  Douglas 
than  honest  citizens  were  pilfered  at  every  turn.  In 
dismay  they  sought  the  protection  of  the  Governor, 
who  instantly  suspected  Hind,  and  gallantly  disclosed 
his  suspicions  to  the  Captain.  "My  lord  !  "  exclaimed 
Hind,  a  blush  upon  his  cheek,  "  I  protest  my  inno- 
cence ;  but  willingly  will  I  suffer  the  heaviest  penalty 
of  your  law  if  I  am  recognised  for  the  thief."  The 
victims,  confronted  with  their  robber,  knew  him  not, 
picturing  to  the  Governor  a  monster  with  long  hair 
and  unkempt  beard.  Hind,  acquitted  with  apologies, 
fetched  from  his  lodging  the  disguise  of  periwig  and 
beard.  "  They  laugh  who  win  !  "  he  murmured,  and 
thus  forced  forgiveness  and  a  chuckle  even  from  his 
judges. 

As  became  a  gentleman-adventurer.  Captain  Hind 
was  staunch  in  his  loyalty  to  his  murdered  King.  To 
strip  the  wealthy  was  always  reputable,  but  to  rob 
a  Regicide  was  a  masterpiece  of  well-doing.  A  fer- 
vent zeal  to  lighten  Cromwell's  pocket  had  brought 
the  illustrious  Allen  to  the  gallows.  But  Hind  was 
not  one  whit  abashed,  and  he  would  never  forego  the 
chance  of  an  encounter  with  his  country's  enemies. 
His  treatment  of  Hugh  Peters  in  Enfield  Chace  is 
among   his   triumphs.      At    the   first   encounter   the 


CAPTAIN  HIND  49 

Presbyterian  plucked  up  courage  enough  to  oppose  his 
adversary  with  texts.  To  Hind's  command  of  "  Stand 
and  deliver ! "  duly  enforced  with  a  loaded  pistol, 
the  ineffable  Peters  replied  with  ox-eye  sanctimoni- 
ously upturned  :  *'  Thou  shalt  not  steal  ;  let  him 
that  stole,  steal  no  more,"  adding  thereto  other  varia- 
tions of  the  eighth  commandment.  Hind  immediately 
countered  with  exhortations  against  the  awful  sin  of 
murder,  and  rebuked  the  blasphemy  of  the  Regicides, 
who,  to  defend  their  own  infamy,  would  wrest  Scripture 
from  its  meaning.  **  Did  you  not,  O  monster  of 
impiety,"  mimicked  Hind  in  the  preacher's  own  voice, 
"  pervert  for  your  own  advantage  the  words  of  the 
Psalmist,  who  said,  *  Bind  their  kings  with  chains, 
and  their  nobles  with  fetters  of  iron '  ?  Moreover,  was 
it  not  Solomon  who  wrote  :  '  Men  do  not  despise  a  thief, 
if  he  steal  to  satisfy  his  soul  when  he  is  hungry '  ?  And 
is  not  my  soul  hungry  for  gold  and  the  Regicides'  dis- 
comfiture ?  "  Peters  was  still  fumbling  after  texts 
when  the  final  argument :  "  Deliver  thy  money,  or  I 
will  send  thee  out  of  the  world  !  "  frightened  him 
into  submission,  and  thirty  broad  pieces  were  Hind's 
reward. 

Not  long  afterwards  he  confronted  Bradshaw  near 
Sherborne,  and  having  taken  from  him  a  purst  fat  with 
Jacobuses  he  bade  the  Sergeant  stand  uncovered,  while 
he  delivered  a  discourse  upon  gold,  thus  shaped  by 
tradition  :  "  Ay,  marry,  sir,  this  is  the  metal  that  wins 
my  heart  for  ever  !  O  precious  gold,  I  admire  and 
adore  thee  as  much  as  Bradshaw,  Prynne,  or  any  villain 

D 


50  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

of  the  same  stamp.  This  is  that  incomparable  medica- 
ment, which  the  republican  physicians  call  the  wonder- 
working plaster.  It  is  truly  catholic  in  operation,  and 
somewhat  akin  to  the  Jesuit's  powder,  but  more 
effectual.  The  virtues  of  it  are  strange  and  various ; 
it  makes  justice  deaf  as  well  as  blind,  and  takes  out 
spots  of  the  deepest  treason  more  cleverly  than  castle- 
soap  does  common  stains  ;  it  alters  a  man's  constitution 
in  two  or  three  days,  more  than  the  virtuoso's  trans- 
fusion of  blood  can  do  in  seven  years.  'Tis  a  great 
alexiopharmick,  and  helps  poisonous  principles  of 
rebellion,  and  those  that  use  them.  It  miraculously 
exalts  and  purifies  the  eyesight,  and  makes  traitors 
behold  nothing  but  innocence  in  the  blackest  male- 
factors. 'Tis  a  mighty  cordial  for  a  declining  cause  ; 
it  stifles  faction  or  schism,  as  certainly  as  the  itch  is 
destroyed  by  butter  and  brimstone.  In  a  word,  it  makes 
wise  men  fools,  and  fools  wise  men,  and  both  knaves. 
The  very  colour  of  this  precious  balm  is  bright  and 
dazzling.  If  it  be  properly  applied  to  the  fist,  that  is 
in  a  decent  manner,  and  a  competent  dose,  it  infallibly 
performs  all  the  cures  which  the  evils  of  humanity 
crave."  Thus  having  spoken,  he  killed  the  six  horses 
of  Bradshaw's  coach,  and  went  contemptuously  on 
his  way. 

But  he  was  not  a  Cavalier  merely  in  sympathy,  nor 
was  he  content  to  prove  his  loyalty  by  robbing  Round- 
heads. He,  too,  would  strike  a  blow  for  his  King, 
and  he  showed,  first  with  the  royal  army  in  Scotland, 
and   afterwards   at   Worcester,  what   he   dared   in  a 


CAPTAIN  HIND  51 

righteous  cause.  Indeed,  it  was  his  part  in  the  unhappy 
battle  that  cost  him  his  Hfe,  and  there  is  a  strange  irony 
in  the  reflection  that,  on  the  self-same  day  whereon  Sir 
Thomas  Urquhart  lost  his  precious  manuscripts  in 
Worcester's  kennels,  the  neck  of  James  Hind  was 
made  ripe  for  the  halter.  His  capture  was  due  to 
treachery.  Towards  the  end  of  1651  he  was  lodged 
with  one  Denzys,  a  barber,  over  against  St.  Dun- 
stan's  Church  in  Fleet  Street.  Maybe  he  had  chosen 
his  hiding-place  for  its  neighbourhood  to  Moll 
Cutpurse's  own  sanctuary.  But  a  pack  of  traitors 
discovered  him,  and  haling  him  before  the  Speaker 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  got  him  committed  forth- 
with to  Newgate. 

At  first  he  was  charged  with  theft  and  murder, 
and  was  actually  condemned  for  killing  George 
Sympson  at  Knole  in  Berkshire.  But  the  day  after 
his  sentence,  an  Act  of  Oblivion  was  passed,  and 
Hind  was  put  upon  trial  for  treason.  During  his 
examination  he  behaved  with  the  utmost  gaiety, 
boastfully  enlarging  upon  his  services  to  the  King's 
cause.  "  These  are  filthy  jingling  spurs,"  said  he 
as  he  left  the  bar,  pointing  to  the  irons  about  his 
legs,  ''  but  I  hope  to  exchange  them  ere  long," 
His  good-humour  remained  with  him  to  the  "end.  He 
jested  in  prison  as  he  jested  on  the  road,  and  it  was 
with  a  light  heart  that  he  mounted  the  scaffold  built 
for  him  at  Worcester.  His  was  the  fate  reserved 
for  traitors  :  he  was  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered, 
and  though  his  head  was  privily  stolen  and  buried  on 


52  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

the  day  of  execution,  his  quarters  were  displayed  upon 
the  town  walls,  until  time  and  the  birds  destroyed 
them  utterly. 

Thus  died  the  most  distinguished  highwayman  that 
ever  drew  rein  upon  an  English  road  ;  and  he  died  the 
death  of  a  hero.  The  unnumbered  crimes  of  violence 
and  robbery  wherewith  he  might  have  been  charged 
weighed  not  a  feather's  weight  upon  his  destiny ; 
he  suffered  not  in  the  cause  of  plunder,  but  in  the 
cause  of  Charles  Stuart.  And  in  thus  excusing  his 
death,  his  contemporaries  did  him  scant  justice.  For 
while  in  treasonable  loyalty  he  had  a  thousand  rivals, 
on  the  road  he  was  the  first  exponent  of  the  grand 
manner.  The  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century 
was,  in  truth,  the  golden  age  of  the  Road.  Not 
only  were  all  the  highwaymen  Cavaliers,  but  many  a 
Cavalier  turned  highwayman.  Broken  at  their  King's 
defeat,  a  hundred  captains  took  pistol  and  vizard,  and 
revenged  themselves  as  freebooters  upon  the  King's 
enemies.  And  though  Hind  was  outlaw  first  and 
royalist  afterwards,  he  was  still  the  most  brilliant 
collector  of  them  all.  True,  he  owed  something  to 
his  master,  Allen  ;  but  he  added  from  the  storehouse  of 
his  own  genius  a  host  of  new  precepts,  and  he  was  the 
first  to  establish  an  enduring  tradition. 

Before  all  things  he  insisted  upon  courtesy;  a  guinea 
stolen  by  an  awkward  ruffian  was  a  sorry  theft ;  levied 
by  a  gentleman  of  the  highway  it  was  a  tribute  paid  to 
courage  by  generosity.  Nothing  would  atone  for  an 
insult  offered  to  a  lady ;  and  when  it  was  Hind's  duty 


CAPTAIN  HIND  53 

to  seize  part  of  a  gentlewoman's  dowry  on  the  Peters- 
field  road,  he  not  only  pleaded  his  necessity  in  eloquent 
excuse,  but  he  made  many  promises  on  behalf  of 
knight-errantry  and  damsels  in  distress.  Never  would 
he  extort  a  trinket  to  which  association  had  given 
a  sentimental  worth  ;  during  a  long  career  he  never 
left  any  man,  save  a  Roundhead,  penniless  upon  the 
road;  nor  was  it  his  custom  to  strip  the  master 
without  giving  the  man  a  trifle  for  his  pains.  His 
courage,  moreover,  was  equal  to  his  understanding. 
Since  he  was  afraid  of  nothing,  it  was  not  his  habit  to 
bluster  when  he  was  not  determined  to  have  his  way. 
Once  his  pistol  levelled,  once  the  solemn  order  given, 
the  victim  must  either  fight  or  surrender ;  and  Hind  was 
never  the  man  to  decline  a  combat  with  any  weapons 
and  under  any  circumstances. 

Like  the  true  artist  that  he  was,  he  neglected  no 
detail  of  his  craft.  As  he  was  a  perfect  shot,  so  also 
he  was  a  finished  horseman  ;  and  his  skill  not  only 
secured  him  against  capture,  but  also  helped  him  to 
the  theft  of  such  horses  as  his  necessities  required,  or 
to  the  exchange  of  a  worn-out  jade  for  a  mettled 
prancer.  Once  upon  a  time  a  credulous  farmer 
offered  twenty  pounds  and  his  own  gelding  for  the 
Captain's  mount.  Hind  struck  a  bargain  at  once, 
and  as  they  jogged  along  the  road  he  persuaded  the 
farmer  to  set  his  newly-purchased  horse  at  the  tallest 
hedge,  the  broadest  ditch.  The  bumpkin  failed,  as 
Hind  knew  he  would  fail ;  and,  begging  the  loan  for 
an  instant  of  his  ancient  steed.  Hind  not  only  showed 


54  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

what  horsemanship  could  accomplish,  but  straightway 
rode  off  with  the  better  horse  and  twenty  pounds  in 
his  pocket.  So  marvellously  did  his  reputation  grow, 
that  it  became  a  distinction  to  be  outwitted  by  him, 
and  the  brains  of  innocent  men  were  racked  to  invent 
tricks  which  might  have  been  put  upon  them  by  the 
illustrious  Captain.  Thus  livelier  jests  and  madder 
exploits  were  fathered  upon  him  than  upon  any  of  his 
kind,  and  he  has  remained  for  two  centuries  the  prime 
favourite  of  the  chap-books. 

Robbing  alone,  he  could  afford  to  despise  pedantry : 
did  he  meet  a  traveller  who  amused  his  fancy  he 
would  give  him  the  pass-word  ("the  fiddler's  paid,"  or 
what  not),  as  though  the  highway  had  not  its  code  of 
morals  j  nor  did  he  scruple,  when  it  served  his  purpose, 
to  rob  the  bunglers  of  his  own  profession.  By  this 
means,  indeed,  he  raised  the  standard  of  the  Road  and 
warned  the  incompetent  to  embrace  an  easier  trade. 
While  he  never  took  a  shilling  without  sweetening 
his  depredation  with  a  joke,  he  was,  like  all 
humourists,  an  acute  philosopher.  "  Remember  what 
I  tell  you,"  he  said  to  the  foolish  persons  who  once 
attempted  to  rob  him,  the  master-thief  of  England, 
"  disgrace  not  yourself  for  small  sums,  but  aim  high, 
and  for  great  ones  j  the  least  will  bring  you  to  the 
gallows."  There,  in  five  lines,  is  the  whole  philosophy 
of  thieving,  and  many  a  poor  devil  has  leapt  from 
the  cart  to  his  last  dance  because  he  neglected  the 
counsel  of  the  illustrious  Hind.  Among  his  aversions 
were  lawyers  and    thief-catchers.      *'  Truly    I    could 


CAPTAIN  HIND  55 

wish,"  he  exclaimed  in  court,  "  that  full-fed  fees  were 
as  little  used  in  England  among  lawyers  as  the  eating 
of  swine's  flesh  was  among  the  Jews."  When  you 
remember  the  terms  of  friendship  whereon  he  lived 
with  Moll  Cutpurse,  his  hatred  of  the  thief-catcher, 
who  would  hang  his  brother  for  *'the  lucre  of  ten 
pounds,  which  is  the  reward,"  or  who  would  swallow  a 
false  oath  "as  easily  as  one  would  swallow  buttered 
fish,"  is  a  trifle  mysterious.  But  perhaps  before  his 
death  an  estrangement  divided  Hind  and  Moll.  Was 
it  that  the  Roaring  Girl  was  too  anxious  to  take  the 
credit  of  Hind's  success  ?  Or  did  he  harbour  the 
unjust  suspicion  that  when  the  last  descent  was  made 
upon  him  at  the  barber's,  Moll  might  have  given  a 
friendly  warning  ? 

Of  this  he  made  no  confession,  but  the  honest  thief 
"was  ever  a  liberal  hater  of  spies  and  attorneys,  and 
Hind's  prudence  is  unquestioned.  A  miracle  of  intelli- 
gence, a  master  of  style,  he  excelled  all  his  contempo- 
raries and  set  up  for  posterity  an  unattainable  standard. 
The  eighteenth  century  flattered  him  by  its  imitation  j 
but  cowardice  and  swagger  compelled  it  to  limp  many 
a  dishonourable  league  behind.  Despite  the  single 
inspiration  of  dancing  a  corant  upon  the  green,  Claude 
Duval,  compared  to  Hind,  was  an  empty  braggart. 
Captain  StaflTord  spoiled  the  best  of  his  effects  with  a 
more  than  brutal  vice.  Neither  Mull-Sack  nor  the 
Golden  Farmer,  for  all  their  long  life  and  handsome 
plunder,  are  comparable  for  an  instant  to  the  robber  of 
Peters  and  Bradshaw.     They  kept  their  fist  fiercely 


56  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

upon  the  gold  of  others,  and  cared  not  by  what  artifice 
it  was  extorted.  But  Hind  never  took  a  sovereign 
meanly;  he  approached  no  enterprise  which  he  did 
not  adorn.  Living  in  a  true  Augustan  age,  he  was 
a  classic  among  highwaymen,  the  very  Virgil  of  the 
Pad. 


MOLL    CUTPURSE    AND 
JONATHAN   WILD 

I 
MOLL  CUTPURSE 


MOLL    CUTPURSE 

THE  most  illustrious  woman  of  an  illustrious  age, 
Moll  Cutpurse,  has  never  lacked  the  recognition 
due  to  her  genius.  She  was  scarce  of  age  when  the 
town  devoured  in  greedy  admiration  the  first  record  of 
her  pranks  and  exploits.  A  year  later  Middleton  made 
her  the  heroine  of  a  sparkling  comedy.  Thereafter 
she  became  the  favourite  of  the  rufflers,  the  common- 
place of  the  poets.  Newgate  knew  her,  and  Fleet 
Street ;  her  manly  figure  was  as  familiar  in  the  Bear 
Garden  as  at  the  Devil  Tavern ;  courted  alike  by  the 
thief  and  his  victim,  for  fifty  years  she  lived  a  life 
brilliant  as  sunlight,  many-coloured  as  a  rainbow. 
And  she  is  remembered,  after  the  lapse  of  centuries, 
not  only  as  the  Queen  Regent  of  Misrule,  the  benevo- 
lent tyrant  of  cly-filers  and  heavers,  of  hacks  and  blades, 
but  as  the  incomparable  Roaring  Girl,  free  of  the  play- 
house, who  perchance  presided  with  Ben  Jonson  over 
the  Parliament  of  Wits. 

She  was  born  in  the  Barbican  at  the  heyday  of 
England's  greatness,  four  years  after  the  glorious  defeat 
of  the  Armada,  and  had  to  her  father  an  honest  shoe- 
maker.    She  came  into  the  world  (saith  rumour)  with 


6o  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

her  fist  doubled,  and  even  in  the  cradle  gave  proof  of  a 
boyish,  boisterous  disposition.  Her  girlhood,  if  the 
word  be  not  an  affront  to  her  mannish  character,  v^^as 
as  tempestuous  as  a  wind-blown  petticoat.  A  very 
"  tomrig  and  rump-scuttle,"  she  knew  only  the  sports 
of  boys  :  her  warlike  spirit  counted  no  excuse  too 
slight  for  a  battle  ;  and  so  valiant  a  lad  was  she  of  her 
hands,  so  well  skilled  in  cudgel-play,  that  none  ever 
wrested  a  victory  from  fighting  Moll.  While  other 
girls  were  content  to  hem  a  kerchief  or  mark  a  sampler, 
Moll  would  escape  to  the  Bear  Garden,  and  there 
enjoy  the  sport  of  baiting,  whose  loyal  patron  she 
remained  unto  the  end.  That  which  most  bitterly 
affronted  her  was  the  magpie  talk  of  the  wenches. 
"  Why,"  she  would  ask  in  a  fury  of  indignation, 
*'why  crouch  over  the  fire  with  a  pack  of  gossips, 
when  the  highway  invites  you  to  romance  ?  Why" 
finger  a  distaff,  when  a  quarterstaff  comes  more  aptly 
to  your  hand  ?  " 

And  thus  she  grew  in  age  and  stature,  a  stranger 
to  the  soft  delights  of  her  sex,  her  heart  still  deaf 
to  the  trivial  voice  of  love.  Had  not  a  wayward 
accident  cumbered  her  with  a  kirtle,  she  would 
have  sought  death  or  glory  in  the  wars ;  she  would 
have  gone  with  Colonel  Downe's  men  upon  the 
road  ;  she  would  have  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main  for 
pieces  of  eight.  But  the  tyranny  of  womanhood  was 
as  yet  supreme,  and  the  honest  shoemaker,  ignorant  of 
his  daughter's  talent,  bade  her  take  service  at  a  respect- 
able saddler's,  and  thus  suppress  the  frowardness  of  her 


MOLL  CUTPURSE  6i 

passion.  Her  rebellion  was  instant.  Never  would 
she  abandon  the  sword  and  the  wrestling-booth  for 
the  harmless  bodkin  and  the  hearthstone  of  domes- 
ticity. Being  absolute  in  refusal,  she  was  kid- 
napped by  her  friends  and  sent  on  board  a  ship,  bound 
for  Virginia  and  slavery.  There,  in  the  dearth  of 
womankind,  even  so  sturdy  a  wench  as  Moll  might 
have  found  a  husband}  but  the  enterprise  was  little 
to  her  taste,  and,  always  resourceful,  she  escaped  from 
shipboard  before  the  captain  had  weighed  his  anchor. 
Henceforth  she  resolved  her  life  should  be  free  and 
chainless  as  the  winds.  Never  more  should  needle  and 
thread  tempt  her  to  a  womanish  inactivity.  As 
Hercules,  whose  counterpart  she  was,  changed  his 
club  for  the  distaff  of  Omphale,  so  would  she  put  ofF 
the  wimple  and  bodice  of  her  sex  for  jerkin  and  galli- 
gaskins. If  she  could  not  allure  manhood,  then  would 
she  brave  it.  And  though  she  might  not  cross  swords 
with  her  country's  foes,  at  least  she  might  levy  tribute 
upon  the  unjustly  rich,  and  confront  an  enemy  wher- 
ever there  was  a  full  pocket. 

Her  entrance  into  a  gang  of  thieves  was  beset  by  no 
difficulty.  The  Bear  Garden,  always  her  favourite 
resort,  had  made  her  acquainted  with  all  the  divers  and 
rumpads  of  the  town.  The  time,  moreover,  was 
favourable  to  enterprise,  and  once  again  was  genius 
born  into  a  golden  age.  The  cutting  of  purses  was 
an  art  brought  to  perfection,  and  already  the  more 
elegant  practice  of  picking  pockets  was  understood. 
The  transition  gave  scope  for  endless  ingenuity,  and 


62  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

Moll  was  not  slow  in  mastering  the  theory  of  either 
craft.  It  was  a  changing  fashion  of  dress  which  forced 
a  new  tactic  upon  the  thief;  the  pocket  was  invented, 
maybe,  because  the  hanging  purse  was  too  easy  a  prey 
for  the  thievish  scissors.  But  no  sooner  did  the  world 
conceal  its  wealth  in  pockets  than  the  cly-filer  was 
born  to  extract  the  booty  with  his  long,  nimble  fingers. 
The  trick  was  managed  with  an  admirable  fore- 
thought, which  has  been  a  constant  example  to  after 
ages.  The  file  was  always  accompanied  by  a  bulk, 
whose  duty  it  was  to  jostle  and  distract  the  victim 
while  his  pockets  were  rifled.  The  bung,  or  what 
not,  was  rapidly  passed  on  to  the  attendant  rub,  who 
scurried  oflF  before  the  cry  of  Stop  thief!  could  be 
raised. 

Thus  was  the  craft  of  thieving  practised  when 
Moll  was  enrolled  a  humble  member  of  the  gang. 
Yet  nature  had  not  endowed  her  with  the  qualities 
which  ensure  an  active  triumph.  "The  best  signs 
and  marks  of  a  happy,  industrious  hand,"  wrote  the 
hoyden,  "  is  a  long  middle  finger,  equally  suited  with 
that  they  call  the  fool's  or  first  finger."  Now,  though 
she  was  never  a  clumsy  jade,  the  practice  of  sword-play 
and  quarterstaff^  had  not  refined  the  industry  of  her 
hands,  which  were  the  rather  framed  for  strength  than 
for  delicacy.  So  that  though  she  served  a  willing 
apprenticeship,  and  eagerly  shared  the  risks  of  her 
chosen  trade,  the  fear  of  Newgate  and  Tyburn  weighed 
heavily  upon  her  spirit,  and  she  cast  about  her  for  a 
method  of  escape.     But  avoiding  the  danger  of  dis- 


MOLL  CUTPURSE  63 

covery,  she  was  loth  to  forego  her  just  profit,  and 
hoped  that  intelligence  might  atone  for  her  sturdy,  in- 
active fingers.  Already  she  had  endeared  herself  to 
the  gang  by  unnumbered  acts  of  kindness  and  gene- 
rosity; already  her  inflexible  justice  had  made  her 
umpire  in  many  a  difficult  dispute.  If  a  rascal  could 
be  bought  ofF  at  the  gallows'  foot,  there  was  Moll  with 
an  open  purse ;  and  so  speedily  did  she  penetrate  all 
the  secrets  of  thievish  policy,  that  her  counsel  and 
comfort  were  soon  indispensable. 

Here,  then,  was  her  opportunity.  Always  a  diplo- 
matist rather  than  a  general,  she  gave  up  the  battlefield 
for  the  council  chamber.  She  planned  the  robberies 
which  defter  hands  achieved ;  and,  turning  herself  from 
cly-filer  to  fence,  she  received  and  changed  to  money 
all  the  watches  and  trinkets  stolen  by  the  gang.  Were 
a  citizen  robbed  upon  the  highway,  he  straightway 
betook  himself  to  Moll,  and  his  property  was  presently 
returned  him  at  a  handsome  price.  Her  house,  in 
short,  became  a  brokery.  Hither  the  blades  and  divers 
brought  their  purchases,  and  sought  the  ransom ;  hither 
came  the  outraged  victims  to  buy  again  the  jewels  and 
rings  which  thievish  fingers  had  pinched.  With  pros- 
perity her  method  improved,  until  at  last  her  states- 
manship controlled  the  remotest  details  of  the  craft. 
Did  one  of  her  gang  get  to  work  overnight  and  carry 
ofF  a  wealthy  swag,  she  had  due  intelligence  of  the 
affair  betimes  next  morning,  so  that,  furnished  with  an 
inventory  of  the  booty,  she  might  make  a  just  division, 
or  be  prepared  for  the  advent  of  the  rightful  owner. 


64  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

So  she  gained  a  complete  ascendency  over  her 
fellows.  And  once  her  position  was  assured,  she  came 
forth  a  pitiless  autocrat.  Henceforth  the  gang  existed 
for  her  pleasure,  not  she  for  the  gang's  ;  and  she  was 
as  urgent  to  punish  insubordination  as  is  an  empress  to 
avenge  the  heinous  sin  of  treason.  The  pickpocket 
who  had  claimed  her  protection  knew  no  more  the 
delight  of  freedom.  If  he  dared  conceal  the  booty  that 
was  his,  he  had  an  enemy  more  powerful  than  the  law, 
and  many  a  time  did  contumacy  pay  the  last  penalty  at 
the  gallows.  But  the  faithful  also  had  their  reward, 
for  Moll  never  deserted  a  comrade,  and  while  she  lived 
in  perfect  safety  herself  she  knew  well  how  to  contrive 
the  safety  of  others.  Nor  was  she  content  merely  to 
discharge  those  duties  of  the  fence  for  which  an  instinct 
of  statecraft  designed  her.  Her  restless  brain  seethed 
with  plans  of  plunder,  and  if  her  hands  were  idle  it  was 
her  direction  that  emptied  half  the  pockets  in  London. 
Having  drilled  her  army  of  divers  to  an  unparalleled 
activity,  she  cast  about  for  some  fresh  method  of 
warfare,  and  so  enrolled  a  regiment  of  heavers,  who 
would  lurk  at  the  mercers'  doors  for  an  opportunity  to 
carry  off  ledgers  and  account-books.  The  price  of 
redemption  was  fixed  by  Moll  herself,  and  until  the 
mercers  were  aroused  by  frequent  losses  to  a  quicker 
vigilance,  the  trade  was  profitably  secure. 

Meanwhile  new  clients  were  ever  seeking  her  aid, 
and,  already  empress  of  the  thieves,  she  presently 
aspired  to  the  friendship  and  patronage  of  the  high- 
waymen.     Though    she    did    not    dispose    of    their 


MOLL  CUTPURSE  65 

booty,  she  was  appointed  their  banker,  and  vast  was 
the  treasure  entrusted  to  the  coffers  of  honest  Moll. 
Now,  it  was  her  pride  to  keep  only  the  best  company, 
for  she  hated  stupidity  worse  than  a  clumsy  hand,  and 
they  were  men  of  wit  and  spirit  who  frequented  her 
house.  Thither  came  the  famous  Captain  Hind,  the 
Regicides'  inveterate  enemy,  whose  lofty  achievements 
Moll,  with  an  amiable  extravagance,  was  wont  to 
claim  for  her  own.  Thither  came  the  unamiably 
notorious  Mull  Sack,  who  once  emptied  Cromwell's 
pocket  on  the  Mall,  and  whose  courage  was  as  formid- 
able as  his  rough-edged  tongue.  Another  favourite 
was  the  ingenious  Crowder,  whose  humour  it  was  to 
take  the  road  habited  like  a  bishop,  and  who  surprised 
the  victims  of  his  greed  with  ghostly  counsel.  Thus 
it  was  a  merry  party  that  assembled  in  the  lady's  par- 
lour, loyal  to  the  memory  of  the  martyred  king,  and 
quick  to  fling  back  an  offending( pleasantry. 

But  the  house  in  Fleet  Street  was  a  refuge  as  well 
as  a  resort,  the  sanctuary  of  a  hundred  rascals,  whose 
misdeeds  were  not  too  flagrantly  discovered.  For, 
while  Moll  always  allowed  discretion  to  govern  her 
conduct,  while  she  would  risk  no  J  present  security  for  a 
vague  promise  of  advantages  to  come,  her  secret  in- 
fluence in  Newgate  made  her  more  powerful  than  the 
hangman  and  the  whole  bench  of  judges.  There  was 
no  turnkey  who  was  not  her  devoted  servitor,  but  it  was 
the  clerk  of  Newgate  to  whom  she  and  her  family  where 
most  deeply  beholden.  This  was  one  Ralph  Briscoe, 
as  pretty  a  fellow  as   ever  deserted  the  law  for  a  bull- 

£ 


66  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

baiting.  Though  wizened  and  clerkly  in  appearance, 
he  was  of  a  high  stomach ;  and  Moll  was  heard  to  declare 
that  had  she  not  been  sworn  to  celibacy,  she  would 
have  cast  an  eye  upon  the  faithful  Ralph,  who  was 
obedient  to  her  behests  whether  at  Gaol  Delivery  or 
Bear  Garden.  For  her  he  would  pack  a  jury  or  get 
a  reprieve ;  for  him  she  would  bait  a  bull  with  the 
fiercest  dogs  in  London.  Why  then  should  she  fear 
the  law,  when  the  clerk  of  Newgate  and  Gregory  the 
Hangman  fought  upon  her  side  ? 

For  others  the  arbiter  of  life  and  death,  she  was 
only  thrice  in  an  unexampled  career  confronted  with 
the  law.  Her  first  occasion  of  arrest  was  so  paltry 
that  it  brought  discredit  only  on  the  constable.  This 
jack-in-office,  a  very  Dogberry,  encountered  Moll  re- 
turning down  Ludgate  Hill  from  some  merry-making, 
a  lanthorn  carried  pompously  before  her.  Startled  by 
her  attire  he  questioned  her  closely,  and  receiving  in- 
sult for  answer,  promptly  carried  her  to  the  Round 
House.  The  customary  garnish  made  her  free  of  the 
prison,  and  next  morning  a  brief  interview  with  the 
Lord  Mayor  restored  Moll  to  liberty  but  not  to  for- 
getfulness.  She  had  yet  to  wreak  her  vengeance  upon 
the  constable  for  a  monstrous  affront,  and  hearing 
presently  that  he  had  a  rich  uncle  in  Shropshire,  she 
killed  the  old  gentleman  (in  imagination)  and  made 
the  constable  his  heir.  Instantly  a  retainer,  in  the  true 
garb  and  accent  of  the  country,  carried  the  news  to 
Dogberry,  and  sent  him  off  to  Ludlow  on  the  costliest 
of  fool's  errands.     He  purchased  a  horse  and  set  forth 


MOLL  CUTPURSE  67 

joyously,  as  became  a  man  of  property,  but  he  limped 
home,  broken  in  purse  and  spirit,  the  hapless  object  of 
ridicule  and  contempt.  Perhaps  he  guessed  the  author 
of  this  sprightly  outrage  ;  but  Moll,  for  her  part,  was 
far  too  finished  a  humourist  to  reveal  the  truth,  and 
hereafter  she  was  content  to  swell  the  jesting  chorus. 

Her  second  encounter  with  justice  was  no  mere 
pleasantry,  and  it  was  only  her  marvellous  generalship 
that  snatched  her  career  from  untimely  ruin  and  herself 
from  the  clutch  of  Master  Gregory.  Two  of  her 
emissaries  had  encountered  a  farmer  in  Chancery  Lane. 
They  spoke  with  him  first  at  Smithfield,  and  knew 
that  his  pocket  was  well  lined  with  bank-notes.  An 
improvised  quarrel  at  a  tavern-door  threw  the  farmer 
off  his  guard,  and  though  he  defended  the  money,  his 
watch  was  snatched  from  his  fob  and  duly  carried  to 
Moll.  The  next  day  the  victim,  anxious  to  repurchase 
his  watch,  repaired  to  Fleet  Street,  where  Moll  gener- 
ously promised  to  recover  the  stolen  property.  But 
unhappily  security  had  encouraged  recklessness,  and  as 
the  farmer  turned  to  leave  he  espied  his  own  watch 
hanging  among  other  trinkets  upon  the  wall.  With  a 
rare  discretion  he  held  his  peace  until  he  had  called  a 
constable  to  his  aid,  and  this  time  the  Roaring  Girl 
was  lodged  in  Newgate,  with  an  ugly  crime  laid  to 
her  charge. 

Committed  for  trial,  she  demanded  that  the  watch 
should  be  left  in  the  constable's  keeping,  and,  plead- 
ing not  guilty  when  the  sessions  came  round,  in- 
sisted that  her  watch  and  the  farmer's  were  not  the 


68  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

same.  The  farmer,  anxious  to  acknowledge  his  pro- 
perty, demanded  the  constable  to  deliver  the  watch, 
that  it  might  be  sworn  to  in  open  court ;  but  when 
the  constable  put  his  hand  to  his  pocket  the  only  piece 
of  damning  evidence  had  vanished,  stolen  by  the  nimble 
fingers  of  one  of  Moll's  oflficers.  Thus  with  admirable 
trickery  and  a  perfect  sense  of  dramatic  effect  she  con- 
trived her  escape,  and  never  again  ran  the  risk  of  a 
sudden  discovery.  For  experience  brought  caution  in 
its  train,  and  though  this  wiliest  of  fences  lived  almost 
within  the  shadow  of  Newgate,  though  she  was  as 
familiar  in  the  prison  yard  as  at  the  Globe  Tavern, 
her  nightly  resort,  she  obeyed  the  rules  of  life  and  law 
with  so  precise  an  exactitude  that  suspicion  could  never 
fasten  upon  her.  Her  kingdom  was  midway  between 
robbery  and  justice.  And  as  she  controlled  the  mys- 
tery of  thieving  so,  in  reality,  she  meted  out  punish- 
ment to  the  evildoer.  Honest  citizens  were  robbed 
with  small  risk  to  life  or  property.  For  Moll  always 
frowned  upon  violence,  and  was  ever  ready  to  restore 
the  booty  for  a  fair  ransom.  And  the  thieves,  driven 
by  discipline  to  a  certain  humanity,  plied  their  trade 
with  an  obedience  and  orderliness  hitherto  unknown. 
Moll's  then  was  no  mean  achievement.  But  her  career 
was  not  circumscribed  by  her  trade,  and  the  jR.oaring 
Girl,  the  dare-devil  companion  of  the  wits  and  bloods, 
enjoyed  a  fame  no  less  glorious  than  the  Queen  of 
Thieves. 

"  Enter  Moll  in  a  frieze  jerkin  and  a  black  safe- 
guard."    Thus  in  the  old  comedy  she  comes  upon  the 


MOLL  CUTPURSE  69 

stage  ;  and  truly  it  was  by  her  clothes  that  she  was 
first  notorious.  By  accident  a  woman,  by  habit  a  man, 
she  must  needs  invent  a  costume  proper  to  her  pur- 
suits. But  she  was  no  shrieking  reformer,  no  fanatic 
spying  regeneration  in  a  pair  of  breeches.  Only  in 
her  attire  she  showed  her  wit ;  and  she  went  to  a  bull- 
baiting  in  such  a  dress  as  well  became  her  favourite 
sport.  She  was  not  of  those  who  "walk  in  spurs  but 
never  ride."  The  jerkin,  the  doublet,  the  galligaskins 
were  put  on  to  serve  the  practical  purposes  of  life,  not 
to  attract  the  policeman  or  the  spinster.  And  when  a 
petticoat  spread  its  ample  folds  beneath  the  doublet, 
not  only  was  her  array  handsome,  but  it  symbolised 
the  career  of  one  who  was  neither  man  nor  woman, 
and  yet  both.  After  a  while,  however,  the  petticoat 
seemed  too  tame  for  her  stalwart  temper,  and  she  ex- 
changed it  for  the  great  Dutch  slop,  habited  in  which 
unseemly  garment  she  is  pictured  in  the  ancient  prints. 
Up  and  down  the  town  she  romped  and  scolded, 
earning  the  name  which  Middleton  gave  her  in  her 
green  girlhood.  "  She  has  the  spirit  of  four  great 
parishes,"  says  the  wit  in  the  comedy,  "  and  a 
voice  that  will  drown  all  the  city."  If  a  gallant 
stood  in  the  way  she  drew  upon  him  in  an  instant, 
and  he  must  be  a  clever  swordsman  to  hold  his 
ground  against  the  tomboy  who  had  laid  low  the 
German  fencer  himself.  A  good  fellow  always,  she 
had  ever  a  merry  word  for  the  passer-by,  and  so  sharp 
was  her  tongue  that  none  ever  put  a  trick  upon  her. 
Not  to  know  Moll    was    to    be   inglorious,  and    she 


70  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

''slipped  from  one  company  to  another  like  a  fat  eel 
between  a  Dutchman's  fingers."  Now  at  Parker's 
Ordinary,  now  at  the  Bear  Garden,  she  frequented  only 
the  haunts  of  men,  and  not  until  old  age  came  upon 
her  did  she  endure  patiently  the  presence  of  women. 

Her  voice  and  speech  were  suited  to  the  galligaskin. 
She  was  a  true  disciple  of  Maitre  Francois,  hating 
nothing  so  much  as  mincing  obscenity,  and  if  she 
flavoured  her  discourse  with  many  a  blasphemous  quip, 
the  blasphemy  was  "  not  so  malicious  as  customary." 
Like  the  blood  she  was,  she  loved  good  ale  and  wine  ; 
and  she  regarded  it  among  her  proudest  titles  to  renown 
that  she  was  the  first  of  women  to  smoke  tobacco. 
Many  was  the  pound  of  best  Virginian  that  she  bought 
of  Mistress  Gallipot,  and  the  pipe,  with  monkey,  dog, 
and  eagle,  is  her  constant  emblem.  Her  antic  attire, 
the  fearless  courage  of  her  pranks,  now  and  again  in- 
volved her  in  disgrace  or  even  jeopardised  her  freedom  j 
but  her  unchanging  gaiety  made  light  of  disaster,  and 
still  she  laughed  and  rollicked  in  defiance  of  prude  and 
pedant. 

Her  companion  in  many  a  fantastical  adventure  was 
Banks,  the  vintner  of  Cheapside,  that  same  Banks 
who  taught  his  horse  to  dance  and  shod  him  with 
silver.  Now  once  upon  a  time  a  right  witty  sport  was 
devised  between  them.  The  vintner  bet  Moll  ^^20 
that  she  would  not  ride  from  Charing  Cross  to  Shore- 
ditch  astraddle  on  horseback,  in  breeches  and  doublet, 
boots,  and  spurs.  The  hoyden  took  him  up  in  a 
moment,  and  added  of  her  own  devilry  a  trumpet  and 


MOLL  CUTPURSE  71 

banner.  She  set  out  from  Charing  Cross  bravely 
enough,  and  a  trumpeter  being  an  unwonted  spectacle, 
the  eyes  of  all  the  town  were  clapped  upon  her.  Yet 
none  knew  her  until  she  reached  Bishopsgate,  where 
an  orange- wench  set  up  the  cry,  "  Moll  Cutpurse  on 
horseback  "  !  Instantly  the  cavalier  was  surrounded 
by  a  noisy  mob.  Some  would  have  torn  her  from  the 
saddle  for  an  imagined  insult  upon  womanhood,  others, 
more  wisely  minded,  laughed  at  the  prank  with  good- 
humoured  merriment.  But  every  minute  the  throng 
grew  denser,  and  it  had  fared  hardly  with  roystering 
Moll,  had  not  a  wedding  and  the  arrest  of  a  debtor 
presently  distracted  the  gaping  idlers.  As  the  mob 
turned  to  gaze  at  the  fresh  wonder,  she  spurred  her 
horse  until  she  gained  Newington  by  an  unfrequented 
lane.  There  she  waited  until  night  should  cover  her 
progress  to  Shoreditch,  and  thus  peacefully  she  returned 
home  to  lighten  the  vintner's  pocket  of  twenty  pounds. 
But  the  fame  of  the  adventure  spread  abroad,  and  that 
the  scandal  should  not  be  repeated  Moll  was  summoned 
before  the  Court  of  Arches  to  answer  a  charge  of 
appearing  publicly  in  mannish  apparel.  The  august 
tribunal  had  no  terror  for  lier,  and  she  received  her 
sentence  to  do  penance  in  a  white  sheet  at  Paul's  Cross 
during  morning-service  on  a  Sunday  with  an  audacious 
contempt.  "  They  might  as  well  have  shamed  a 
black  dog  as  me,"  she  proudly  exclaimed ;  and  why 
should  she  dread  the  white  sheet,  when  all  the  spectators 
looked  with  a  lenient  eye  upon  her  professed  discom- 
fiture ?    "  For  a  halfpenny,"  she  said, "  she  would  have 


72  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

travelled  to  every  market-town  of  England  in  the  guise 
of  a  penitent,"  and  having  tippled  off  three  quarts  of 
sack  she  swaggered  to  Paul's  Cross  in  the  maddest  of 
humours.  But  not  all  the  courts  on  earth  could 
lengthen  her  petticoat,  or  contract  the  Dutch  slop  by 
a  single  fold.  For  a  while,  perhaps,  she  chastened  her 
costume,  yet  she  soon  reverted  to  the  ancient  mode, 
and  to  her  dying  day  went  habited  as  a  man. 

As  bear-baiting  was  the  passion  of  her  life,  so  she 
was  scrupulous  in  the  care  and  training  of  her  dogs. 
She  gave  them  each  a  trundle-bed,  wrapping  them  from 
the  cold  in  sheets  and  blankets,  while  their  food  would 
not  have  dishonoured  a  gentleman's  table.  Parrots, 
too,  gave  a  sense  of  colour  and  companionship  to  her 
house  ;  and  it  was  in  this  love  of  pets,  and  her  devotion 
to  cleanliness,  that  she  showed  a  trace  of  dormant 
womanhood.  Abroad  a  ribald  and  a  scold,  at  home  she 
was  the  neatest  of  housewives,  and  her  parlour,  with 
its  mirrors  and  its  manifold  ornaments,  was  the  envy 
of  the  neighbours.  So  her  trade  flourished,  and  she 
lived  a  life  of  comfort,  of  plenty  even,  until  the  Civil 
War  threw  her  out  of  work.  When  an  unnatural  con- 
flict set  the  whole  country  at  loggerheads,  what  occa- 
sion was  there  for  the  honest  prig  ?  And  it  is  not 
surprising  that,  like  all  the  gentlemen  adventurers  of 
the  age,  Moll  remained  most  stubbornly  loyal  to  the 
King's  cause.  She  made  the  conduit  in  Fleet  Street 
run  with  wine  when  Charles  came  to  London  in  1638  ; 
and  it  was  her  amiable  pleasantry  to  give  the  name  of 
StraflFbrd  to  a  clever,  cunning  bull,  and  to  dub  the  dogs 


MOLL  CUTPURSE  73 

that  assailed  him  Pym,  Hampden,  and  the  rest,  that 
right  heartily  she  might  applaud  the  courage  of  Straf- 
ford as  he  threw  off  his  unwary  assailants. 

So  long  as  the  quarrel  lasted,  she  was  compelled  to 
follow  a  profession  more  ancient  than  the  fence's  ; 
for  there  is  one  passion  which  war  itself  cannot 
extinguish.  But  once  the  King  had  laid  his  head 
*'down  as  upon  a  bed,"  once  the  Protector  had 
proclaimed  his  supremacy,  the  industry  of  the  road 
revived  ;  and  there  was  not  a  single  diver  or  rumpad 
that  did  not  declare  eternal  war  upon  the  black- 
hearted Regicides.  With  a  laudable  devotion  to 
her  chosen  cause,  Moll  despatched  the  most  expe- 
rienced of  her  gang  to  rob  Lady  Fairfax  on  her  way  to 
church  }  and  there  is  a  tradition  that  the  Roaring  Girl, 
hearing  that  Fairfax  would  pass  by  Hounslow,  rode 
forth  to  meet  him,  and  with  her  own  voice  bade  him 
stand  and  deliver.  One  would  like  to  believe  it;  yet 
it  is  scarce  credible.  If  Fairfax  had  spent  the  balance 
of  an  ignominious  career  in  being  plundered  by  a  band 
of  loyal  brigands,  he  would  not  have  had  time  to 
justify  the  innumerable  legends  of  pockets  emptied  and 
pistols  levelled  at  his  head.  Moreover,  Moll  herself 
was  laden  with  years,  and  she  had  always  preferred  the 
council  chamber  to  the  battlefield.  But  it  is  certain 
that,  with  Captain  Hind  and  Mull  Sack  to  aid,  she 
schemed  many  a  clever  plot  against  the  Roundheads, 
and  nobly  she  played  her  part  in  avenging  the  martyred 
King. 

Thus  she  declined  into  old  age,  attended,  like  ^ueen 


74  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

Mary,  by  her  maids,  who  would  card,  reel,  spin,  and 
beguile  her  leisure  with  sweet  singing.  Though  her 
spirit  was  untamed,  the  burden  of  her  years  compelled 
her  to  a  tranquil  life.  She,  who  formerly  never  missed 
a  bull-baiting,  must  now  content  herself  with  tick-tack. 
Her  fortune,  moreover,  had  been  wrecked  in  the 
Civil  War.  Though  silver  shells  still  jingled  in  her 
pocket,  time  was  she  knew  the  rattle  of  the  yellow 
boys.  But  she  never  lost  courage,  and  died  at  last 
of  a  dropsy,  in  placid  contentment  with  her  lot. 
Assuredly  she  was  born  at  a  time  well  suited  to  her 
genius.  Had  she  lived  to-day,  she  might  have  been  a 
"Pioneer";  she  might  even  have  discussed  some  paltry 
problem  of  sex  in  a  printed  obscenity.  In  her  own 
freer,  wiser  age,  she  was  not  man's  detractor,  but  his 
rival ;  and  if  she  never  knew  the  passion  of  love,  she 
was  always  loyal  to  the  obligation  of  friendship.  By 
her  will  she  left  twenty  pounds  to  celebrate  the  Second 
Charles's  restoration  to  his  kingdom ;  and  you  con- 
template her  career  with  the  single  regret  that  she 
died  a  brief  year  before  the  red  wine,  thus  generously 
bestowed^  bubbled  at  the  fountain. 


II 

JONATHAN   WILD 


JONATHAN   WILD 

WHEN  Jonathan  Wild  and  the  Count  La  Ruse, 
in  Fielding's  narrative,  took  a  hand  at  cards, 
Jonathan  picked  his  opponent's  pocket,  though  he  knew 
it  was  empty,  while  the  Count,  from  sheer  force  of 
habit,  stocked  the  cards,  though  Wild  had  not  a  farthing 
to  lose.  And  if  in  his  uncultured  youth  the  great  man 
stooped  to  prig  with  his  own  hand,  he  was  early  cured 
of  the  weakness  :  so  that  Fielding's  picture  of  the  hero 
taking  a  bottle-screw  from  the  Ordinary's  pocket  in  the 
very  moment  of  death  is  entirely  fanciful.  For  "  this 
Machiavel  of  Thieves,"  as  a  contemporary  styled  him, 
left  others  to  accomplish  what  his  ingenuity  had  planned. 
His  was  the  high  poHcy  of  theft.  If  he  lived  on  terms 
of  familiar  intimacy  with  the  mill-kens,  the  bridle-culls, 
the  buttock-and-files  of  London,  he  was  none  the  less 
the  friend  and  minister  of  justice.  He  enjoyed  the 
freedom  of  Newgate  and  the  Old  Bailey.  He  came 
and  went  as  he  liked:  he  packed  juries,  he  procured 
bail,  he  manufactured  evidence  ;  and  there  was  scarce 
an  assize  or  a  sessions  passed  but  he  slew  his  man. 

The  world  knew  him  for  a  robber, >yet  could  not  refuse 
his  brilliant  service.     At  the  Poidtry  Counter,  you  are 


78  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

told,  he  laid  the  foundations  of  his  future  greatness, 
and  to  the  Poultry  Counter  he  was  committed  for 
some  trifling  debt  ere  he  had  fully  served  his  apprentice- 
ship to  the  art  and  mystery  of  buckle-making.  There 
he  learned  his  craft,  and  at  his  enlargement  he  was  able 
forthwith  to  commence  thief-catcher.  His  plan  was 
conceived  with  an  effrontery  that  was  nothing  less  than 
genius.  On  the  one  side  he  was  the  factor,  or  rather 
the  tyrant,  of  the  cross-coves  :  on  the  other  he  was  the 
trusted  agent  of  justice,  the  benefactor  of  the  outraged 
and  the  plundered.  Among  his  earliest  exploits  was  the 
recovery  of  the  Countess  of  G — d — n's  chair,  im- 
pudently carried  off  when  her  ladyship  had  but  just 
alighted;  and  the  courage  wherewith  he  brought  to 
justice  the  murderers  of  one  Mrs.  Knap,  who  had  been 
slain  for  some  trifling  booty,  established  his  reputation 
as  upon  a  rock.  He  at  once  advertised  himself  in  the 
public  prints  as  Thief-Catcher  General  of  Great 
Britain  and  Ireland,  and  proceeded  to  send  to  the 
gallows  every  scoundrel  that  dared  dispute  his 
position. 

His  opportunities  of  gain  were  infinite.  Even  if  he 
did  not  organise  the  robbery  which  his  cunning  was 
presently  to  discover,  he  had  spies  in  every  hole  and 
corner  to  set  him  on  the  felon's  track.  Nor  did  he 
leave  a  single  enterprise  to  chance  :  "  He  divided  the 
city  and  suburbs  into  wards  or  divisions,  and  appointed 
the  persons  who  were  to  attend  each  ward,  and  kept 
them  strictly  to  their  duty."  If  a  subordinate  dared  to 
disobey  or  to  shrink  from  murder,  Jonathan  hanged 


JONATHAN  WILD  79 

him  at  the  next  assize,  and  happily  for  him  he  had  not  a 
single  confederate  whose  neck  he  might  not  put  in  the 
halter  when  he  chose.  Thus  he  preserved  the  union 
and  the  fidelity  of  his  gang,  punishing  by  judicial 
murder  the  smallest  insubordination,  the  faintest  sus- 
picion of  rivalry.  Even  when  he  had  shut  his  victim 
up  in  Newgate,  he  did  not  leave  him  so  long  as  there 
was  a  chance  of  blackmail.  He  would  make  the  most 
generous  offers  of  evidence  and  defence  to  every  thief 
that  had  a  stiver  left  him.  But  whether  or  no  he  kept 
his  bargain — that  depended  upon  policy  and  inclination. 
On  one  occasion,  when  he  had  brought  a  friend  to  the 
Old  Bailey,  and  relented  at  the  last  moment,  he  kept 
the  prosecutor  drunk  from  the  noble  motive  of  self- 
interest,  until  the  case  was  over.  And  so  esteemed  was 
he  of  the  officers  of  the  law  that  even  this  interference 
did  but  procure  a  reprimand. 

His  meanest  action  marked  him  out  from  his  fellows, 
but  it  was  not  until  he  habitually  pillaged  the  treasures 
he  afterwards  restored  to  their  grateful  owners  for  a 
handsome  consideration,  that  his  art  reached  the  highest 
point  of  excellence.  The  event  was  managed  by  him 
with  amazing  adroitness  from  beginning  to  end.  It 
was  he  who  discovered  the  wealth  and  habit  of  the 
victim  ;  it  was  he  who  posted  the  thief  anrd  seized  the 
plunder,  giving  a  paltry  commission  to  his  hirelings  for 
the  trouble  ;  it  was  he  who  kept  whatever  valuables 
were  lost  in  the  transaction  ;  and  as  he  was  the  servant 
of  the  Court,  discovery  or  inconvenience  was  impossible. 
Surely  the  Machiavel  of  Thieves  is  justified  of  his  title. 


8o  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

He  was  known  to  all  the  rich  and  titled  folk  in  town  ; 
and  if  he  was  generally  able  to  give  them  back  their 
stolen  valuables  at  something  more  than  double  their 
value,  he  treated  his  clients  with  a  most  proper  insolence. 
When  Lady  M — n  was  unlucky  enough  to  lose  a  silver 
buckle  at  Windsor,  she  asked  Wild  to  recover  it,  and 
offered  the  hero  twenty  pounds  for  his  trouble. 
"  Zounds,  Madam,"  says  he,  "  you  offer  nothing.  It 
cost  the  gentleman  who  took  it  forty  pounds  for  his 
coach,  equipage,  and  other  expenses  to  Windsor."  His 
impudence  increased  with  success,  and  in  the  geniality 
of  his  cups  he  was  wont  to  boast  his  amazing  rogueries  : 
"hinting  not  without  vanity  at  the  poor  Understandings 
of  the  Greatest  Part  of  Mankind,  and  his  own  Superior 
Cunning." 

In  fifteen  years  he  claimed  j^i  0,000  for  his  divi- 
dend of  recovered  plunderings,  and  who  shall  estimate 
the  moneys  which  flowed  to  his  treasury  from  black- 
mail and  the  robberies  of  his  gang  ?  So  brisk  became 
his  trade  in  jewels  and  the  precious  metals  that 
he  opened  relations  with  Holland,  and  was  master  of  a 
fleet.  His  splendour  increased  with  wealth  :  he  carried 
a  silver-mounted  sword,  and  a  footman  tramped  at  his 
heels.  "  His  table  was  very  splendid,"  says  a  biographer  : 
"he  seldom  dining  under  five  Dishes,  the  Reversions 
whereof  were  generally  charitably  bestow'd  on  the 
Commonside  felons."  At  his  second  marriage  with 
Mrs.  Mary  D — n,  the  hempen  widow  of  Scull  D — n, 
his  humour  was  most  happily  expressed  :  he  distributed 
white  ribbons  among  the  turnkeys,  he  gave  the  Ordinary 


JONATHAN  WILD  8i 

gloves  and  favours,  he  sent  the  prisoners  of  New^gate 
several  ankers  of  brandy  for  punch.  'Twas  a  fitting 
complaisance,  since  his  fortune  was  draw^n  from  New- 
gate, and  since  he  was  destined  himself,  a  few  years 
later,  to  drink  punch — *'a  liquor  nowhere  spoken 
against  in  the  Scriptures  " — with  the  same  Ordinary 
whom  he  thus  magnificently  decorated.  Endowed  with 
considerable  courage,  for  a  while  he  had  the  prudence  to 
save  his  skin,  and  despite  his  bravado  he  was  known  on 
occasion  to  yield  a  plundered  treasure  to  an  accomplice 
who  set  a  pistol  to  his  head.  But  it  is  certain  that  the 
accomplice  died  at  Tyburn  for  his  pains,  and  on  equal 
terms  Jonathan  was  resolute  with  the  best.  On  the  trail 
he  was  savage  as  a  wild  beast.  When  he  arrested  James 
Wright  for  a  robbery  committed  upon  the  persons  of 
the  Earl  of  B — 1 — n  and  the  Lord  Bruce,  he  held 
on  to  the  victim's  chin  by  his  teeth — an  exploit  which 
reminds  you  of  the  illustrious  Tiger  Roche  ! 

Even  in  his  lifetime  he  was  generously  styled  the 
Great.  The  scourge  of  London,  he  betrayed  and  de- 
stroyed every  man  that  ever  dared  to  live  upon  terms 
of  friendship  with  him.  It  was  Jonathan  that  made 
Blueskin  a  thief,and  Jonathan  only  screened  his  creature 
from  justice  so  long  as  clemency  seemed  profitable.  At 
the  first  hint  of  disobedience  Blueskin  was  committed 
to  Newgate.  When  he  had  stood  his  trial,  and  was 
being  taken  to  the  Condemned  Hole,  he  beckoned  to 
Wild  as  though  to  a  conference,  and  cut  his  throat  with 
a  penknife.  The  assembled  rogues  and  turnkeys 
thought  their  Jonathan  dead  at  last,  and  rejoiced  ex- 


82  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

ceedingly  therein.  Straightway  the  poet  of  Newgatis 
Garland  leaped  into  verse  : 

Then  hopeless  of  life, 

He  drew  his  penknife. 

And  made  a  sad  widow  of  Jonathan's  wife. 
But  forty  pounds  paid  her,  her  grief  shall  appease. 
And  every  man  round  me  may  rob,  if  he  please. 

But  Jonathan  recovered,  and  Molly,  his  wife,  was 
destined  a  second  time  to  win  the  conspicuous  honour 
that  belongs  to  a  hempen  widow. 

As  his  career  drew  to  its  appointed  close,  Fortune 
withheld  her  smiles.  ''  People  got  so  peery,"  complained 
the  great  man, "  that  ingenious  men  were  put  to  dreadful 
shifts."  And  then,  highest  tribute  to  his  greatness,  an 
Act  of  ParHament  was  passed  which  made  it  a  capital 
offence  "  for  a  prig  to  steal  with  the  hands  of  other 
people";  and  in  the  increase  of  public  vigilance  his 
undoing  became  certain.  On  the  2nd  of  January, 
1725,  a  day  not  easy  to  forget,  a  creature  of  Wild's 
spoke  with  fifty  yards  of  lace,  worth  ^^40,  at  his  Cap- 
tain's bidding,  and  Wild,  having  otherwise  disposed  of 
the  plunder,  was  charged  on  the  loth  of  March  that  he 
*'did  feloniously  receive  of  Katharine  Stetham  ten 
guineas  on  account  and  under  colour  of  helping  the  said 
Katharine  Stetham  to  the  said  lace  again,  and  did  not 
then,  nor  any  time  since,  discover  or  apprehend,  or 
cause  to  be  apprehended  and  brought  to  Justice,  the 
persons  that  committed  the  said  felony."  Thus  runs 
the   indictment,   and,   to   the   inexpressible   relief  of 


JONATHAN  WILD  83 

Jesser  men,  Jonathan  Wild    was   condemned   to   the 
gallows. 

Thereupon  he  had  serious  thoughts  of  "  putting  his 
house  in  order";  with  an  ironical  smile  he  demanded 
an  explanation  of  the  text :  "  Cursed  is  every  one  that 
hangeth  on  a  tree  " ;  but,  presently  reflecting  that  "  his 
Time  was  but  short  in  this  World,  he  improved  it  to 
the  best  advantage  in  Eating,  Drinking,  Swearing, 
Cursing,  and  talking  to  his  Visitants."  For  all  his 
bragging,  drink  alone  preserved  his  courage  :  "  he  was 
very  restless  in  the  Condemned  Hole,"  though  "  he  gave 
little  or  no  attention  to  the  condemned  Sermon  which 
the  purblind  Ordinary  preached  before  him,"  and  which 
was,  in  Fielding's  immortal  phrase,  *'  unto  the  Greeks 
foolishness."  But  in  the  moment  of  death  his  distinction 
returned  to  him.  He  tried,  but  failed,  to  kill  himself; 
and  his  progress  to  the  nubbing  cheat  was  a  triumph 
of  execration.  He  reached  Tyburn  through  a  howling 
mob,  and  died  to  a  yell  of  universal  joy. 

The  Ordinary  has  left  a  record  so  precious  and 
so  lying,  that  it  must  needs  be  quoted  at  length. 
The  great  Thief-Catcher's  confession  is  a  masterpiece 
of  comfort,  and  is  so  far  removed  from  the  truth  as 
completely  to  justify  Fielding's  incomparable  creation. 
"  Finding  there  was  no  room  for  mercy  (^d  how  could 
I  expect  mercy,  who  never  showed  any) " — thus  does 
the  devil-dodger  dishonour  our  Jonathan's  memory! 
— "  as  soon  as  I  came  into  the  Condemned  Hole,  I 
began  to  think  of  making  a  preparation  for  my  soul. 
....  To  part  with  my  wife,  my  dear  Molly,  is  so 


84  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

great  an  Affliction  to  me,  that  it  touches  me  to  the 
Quick,  and  is  like  Daggers  entering  into  my  Heart." 
How  tame  the  Ordinary's  falsehood  to  the  brilliant  in- 
vention of  Fielding,  who  makes  Jonathan  kick  his  Tishy 
in  the  very  shadow  of  the  Tree  !  But  the  Reverend 
Gentleman  gains  in  unction  as  he  goes.  "  In  the  Cart 
they  all  kneeled  down  to  prayers  and  seemed  very 
penitent ;  the  Ordinary  used  all  the  means  imaginable 
to  make  them  think  of  another  World,  and  after  singing 
a  penitential  Psalm,  they  cry'd  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
receive  our  Souls,  the  cart  drew  away  and  they  were 
all  turned  ofF.  Thfs  is  as  good  an  account  as  can  be 
given  by  me."  Poor  Ordinary  !  If  he  was  modest, 
he  was  also  untruthful,  and  you  are  certain  that  it 
was  not  thus  the  hero  met  his  death. 

Even  had  Fielding  never  written  his  masterpiece, 
Jonathan  Wild  would  still  have  been  surnamed  "  The 
Great."  For  scarce  a  chap-book  appeared  in  the  year 
of  Jonathan's  death  that  did  not  expose  the  only  right 
and  true  view  of  his  character.  "  His  business,"  says 
one  hack  of  prison  literature,  "  at  all  times  was  to  put 
a  false  gloss  upon  things,  and  to  make  fools  of  mankind." 
Another  precisely  formulates  the  theory  of  greatness 
insisted  upon  by  Fielding  with  so  lavish  an  irony  and  so 
masterly  a  wit.  While  it  is  certain  that  "The  History 
of  the  Late  Mr.  Jonathan  Wild  "  is  as  noble  a  piece  of 
irony  as  literature  can  show,  while  for  the  qualities  of 
wit  and  candour  it  is  equal  to  its  motive,  it  is  likewise 
true  that  therein  you  meet  the  indubitable  Jonathan 
Wild.     It  is  an  entertainment  to  compare  the  chap- 


JONATHAN  WILD  85 

tooks  of  the  time  with  the  reasoned,  finished  work  of 
art  :  not  in  any  spirit  of  pedantry — since  accuracy  in 
these  matters  is  of  small  account,  but  with  intent  to 
show  how  doubly  fortunate  Fielding  was  in  his  genius 
and  in  his  material.  Of  course  the  writer  rejoiced 
in  the  aid  of  imagination  and  eloquence  ;  of  course 
he  embelHshed  his  picture  with  such  inspirations  as 
Miss  Laetitia  and  the  Count ;  of  course  he  preserves 
from  the  first  page  to  the  last  the  highest  level  of 
unrivalled  irony.  But  the  sketch  was  there  before  him, 
and  a  lawyer's  clerk  had  treated  Jonathan  in  a  vein  of 
heroism  within  a  few  weeks  of  his  death.  But  since  a 
plain  statement  is  never  so  true  as  fiction,  Fielding's 
romance  is  still  more  credible,  still  convinces  with  an 
easier  effort,  than  the  serious  and  pedestrian  records  of 
contemporaries.  And  you  cannot  return  to  its  pages 
without  realising  that,  so  far  from  being  "  the  evolution 
of  a  purely  intellectual  conception,"  "Jonathan  Wild" 
is  a  magnificently  idealised  and  ironical  portrait  of  a 
great  man. 


Ill 
A    PARALLEL 

(MOLL    CUTPURSE    AND 
JONATHAN  WILD) 


A    PARALLEL 

(MOLL  CUTPURSE  AND  JONATHAN  WILD) 

THEY  plied  the  same  trade,  each  with  incomparable 
success.  By  her,  as  by  him,  the  art  of  the  fence  was 
carried  to  its  ultimate  perfection.  In  their  hands  the 
high  policy  of  theft  wanted  nor  dignity  nor  assurance. 
Neither  harboured  a  single  scheme  which  was  not 
straightway  translated  into  action,  and  they  were 
masters  at  once  of  Newgate  and  the  Highway.  As 
none  might  rob  without  the  encouragement  of  his 
emperor,  so  none  was  hanged  at  Tyburn  while 
intrigue  or  bribery  might  avail  to  drag  a  half-doomed 
neck  from  the  halter  ;  and  not  even  Moll  herself  was 
more  bitterly  tyrannical  in  the  control  of  a  reckless 
gang  than  the  thin-jawed,  hatchet-faced  Jonathan 
Wild. 

They  were  statesmen  rather  than  warriors — happy 
if  they  might  direct  the  enterprises  of  others,  and 
determined  to  punish  the  lightest  disobedience  by 
death.  The  mind  of  each  was  readier  than  his  hand, 
and  neither  would  risk  an  easy  advantage  by  a  mis- 
understood or  unwonted  sleight  of  hand.     But  when 


90  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

you  leave  the  exercise  of  their  craft  to  contemplate 
their  character  with  a  larger  eye,  it  is  the  woman  who 
at  every  point  has  the  advantage.  Not  only  was  she 
the  peerless  inventor  of  a  new  cunning ;  she  was  at 
home  (and  abroad)  the  better  fellow.  The  suppression 
of  sex  was  in  itself  an  unparalleled  triumph,  and  the 
most  envious  detractor  could  not  but  marvel  at  the 
domination  of  her  womanhood.  Moreover,  she  shone 
in  a  gayer,  more  splendid  epoch.  The  worthy  con- 
temporary of  Shakespeare,  she  had  small  difficulty  in 
performing  feats  of  prowess  and  resource  which 
daunted  the  intrepid  ruffians  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. Her  period,  in  brief,  gave  her  an  eternal 
superiority ;  and  it  were  as  hopeless  for  Otway  to 
surpass  the  master  whom  he  disgraced,  as  for  Wild  to 
o'ershadow  the  brilliant  example  of  Moll  Cutpurse. 

Tyrants  both,  they  exercised  their  sovereignty  in 
accordance  with  their  varying  temperament.  Hers 
was  a  fine,  fat,  Falstaffian  humour,  which,  while  it 
inspired  Middleton,  might  have  suggested  to  Shake- 
speare an  equal  companion  of  the  drunken  knight. 
His  was  but  a  narrow,  cynic  wit,  not  edged  like  the 
knife,  which  well-nigh  cut  his  throat,  but  blunt  and 
scratching  like  a  worn-toothed  saw.  She  laughed  with 
a  laugh  that  echoed  from  Ludgate  to  Charing  Cross, 
and  her  voice  drowned  all  the  City.  He  grinned 
rarely  and  with  malice  ;  he  piped  in  a  voice  shrill  and 
acid  as  the  tricks  of  his  mischievous  imagination. 
She  knew  no  cruelty  beyond  the  necessities  of  her  life, 
and  none  regretted  more  than  she  the  inevitable  death 


A  PARALLEL  91 

of  a  traitor.  He  lusted  after  destruction  with  a  fiendish 
temper,  which  was  but  a  grim  anticipation  of  De  Sade  ; 
he  would  even  smile  as  he  saw  the  noose  tighten  round 
the  necks  of  the  poor  innocents  he  had  beguiled  to 
Tyburn.  It  was  his  boast  that  he  had  contrived 
robberies  for  the  mere  glory  of  dragging  his  silly 
victims  to  the  gallows.  But  Moll,  though  she  stood 
half-way  between  the  robber  and  his  prey,  would  have 
sacrificed  a  hundred  well-earned  commissions  rather 
than  see  her  friends  and  comrades  strangled.  Her 
temperament  compelled  her  to  the  loyal  support  of 
her  own  order,  and  she  would  have  shrunk  in  horror 
from  her  rival,  who,  for  all  his  assumed  friendship  with 
the  thief,  was  a  staunch  and  subtle  ally  of  justice. 

Before  all  things  she  had  the  genius  of  success.  Her 
public  offences  were  trivial  and  condoned.  She  died 
in  her  bed,  full  of  years  and  of  honours,  beloved  by 
the  light-fingered  gentry,  reverenced  by  all  the  judges 
on  the  bench.  He,  for  all  the  sacrifices  he  made  to  a 
squint-eyed  law,  died  execrated  alike  by  populace  and 
police.  Already  Blueskin  had  done  his  worst  with  a 
penknife ;  already  Jack  Sheppard  and  his  comrades 
had  warned  Drury  Lane  against  the  infamous  thief- 
catcher.  And  so  anxious,  on  the  other  hand,  was  the 
law  to  be  quit  of  their  too  zealous  servant,  that  an 
Act  of  Parliament  was  passed  with  the  sole  object  of 
placing  Jonathan's  head  within  the  noose.  His 
method,  meagre  though  masterly,  lulled  him  too  soon 
to  an  impotent  security.  She,  with  her  larger  view 
of  life,  her  plumper  sense  of  style,  was  content  with 


92  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

nothing  less  than  an  ultimate  sovereignty,  and  mani- 
festly did  she  prove  her  superiority. 

Though  born  for  the  wimple,  she  was  more  of  a 
man  than  the  breeched  and  stockinged  Jonathan, 
whose  only  deed  of  valiance  was  to  hang,  terrier-like, 
by  his  teeth  to  an  evasive  enemy.  While  he  cheated 
at  cards  and  cogged  the  dice,  she  trained  dogs  and 
never  missed  a  bear-baiting.  He  shrank,  like  the 
coward  that  he  was,  from  the  exercise  of  manly  sports ; 
she  cared  not  what  were  the  weapons — quarterstafF  or 
broadsword — so  long  as  she  vanquished  her  opponent. 
She  scoured  the  town  in  search  of  insult ;  he  did  but 
exert  his  cunning  when  a  quarrel  was  put  upon 
him.  Who,  then,  shall  deny  her  manhood  ?  Who 
shall  whisper  that  his  style  was  the  braver  or  the  better 
suited  to  his  sex  ? 

As  became  a  hero,  she  kept  the  best  of  loose  com- 
pany :  her  parlour  was  ever  packed  with  the  friends 
of  loyalty  and  adventure.  Are  not  Hind  and  Mull 
Sack  worth  a  thousand  Blueskins  ?  Moreover,  plunder 
and  wealth  were  not  the  only  objects  of  her  pursuit : 
she  was  not  merely  a  fence  but  a  patriot,  and  she 
would  have  accounted  a  thousand  pounds  well  lost,  if 
she  did  but  compass  the  discomfiture  of  a  Parliament- 
man.  Indeed,  if  Jonathan,  the  thief-catcher,  limped 
painfully  after  his  magnificent  example,  Jonathan  the 
man  and  the  sportsman  confessed  a  pitiful  inferiority 
to  the  valiant  Moll.  Thus  she  avenged  her  sex  by 
distancing  the  most  illustrious  of  her  rivals  j  and  if  he 
pleads  for  his  credit  a  taste  for  theology,  hers  is  the 


A  PARALLEL  93 

chuckle  of  contemptuous  superiority.  She  died  a 
patriot,  bequeathing  a  fountain  of  wine  to  the  cham- 
pions of  an  exiled  king ;  he  died  a  casuist,  setting 
crabbed  problems  to  the  Ordinary.  Here,  again,  the 
advantage  is  evident :  loyalty  is  the  virtue  of  men ; 
a  sudden  attachment  to  religion  is  the  last  resource  of 
the  second-rate  citizen  and  of  the  trapped  criminal. 


RALPH    BRISCOE 


RALPH    BRISCOE 

A  SPARE,  lean  frame ;  a  small  head  set  forward 
upon  a  pair  of  sloping  shoulders  ;  a  thin,  sharp 
nose,  and  rat-like  eyes  j  a  flat,  hollow  chest ;  shrunk 
shanks,  modestly  retreating  from  their  snufF-coloured 
hose — these  are  the  tokens  which  served  to  remind  his 
friends  of  Ralph  Briscoe,  the  Clerk  of  Newgate.  As 
he  left  the  prison  in  the  grey  air  of  morning  upon 
some  errand  of  mercy  or  revenge,  he  appeared  the 
least  fearsome  of  mortals,  while  an  awkward  limp  upon 
his  left  toe  deepened  the  impression  of  timidity.  So 
abstract  was  his  manner,  so  hesitant  his  gait,  that  he 
would  hug  the  wall  as  he  went,  nervously  stroking  its 
grimy  surface  with  his  long,  twittering  fingers.  But 
Ralph,  as  justice  and  the  Jug  knew  too  well,  was 
neither  fool  nor  coward.  His  character  belied  his 
outward  seeming.  A  large  soul  had  crept  into  the 
case  of  his  wizened  body,  and  if  a  poltroon  among  his 
ancestors  had  gifted  him  with  an  alien  type,  he  had 
inherited  from  some  nameless  warrior  both  courage 
and  resource. 

He   was   born   in   easy   circumstances,  and  gently 
nurtured  in  the  distant  village  of  Kensington.  Though 

G 


98  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

cast  in  a  scholar's  mould,  and  very  apt  for  learning,  he 
rebelled  from  the  outset  against  a  career  of  inaction. 
His  lack  of  strength  was  never  a  check  upon  his  high 
stomach  ;  he  would  fight  with  boys  of  twice  his  size, 
and  accept  the  certain  defeat  in  a  cheerful  spirit  of 
dogged  pugnacity.  Moreover,  if  his  arms  were  weak, 
his  cunning  was  as  keen-edged  as  his  tongue  ;  and, 
before  his  stricken  eye  had  paled,  he  had  commonly 
executed  an  ample  vengeance  upon  his  enemy.  Nor 
was  it  industry  that  placed  him  at  the  top  of  the  class. 
A  ready  wit  made  him  master  of  the  knowledge  he 
despised.  But  he  would  always  desert  his  primer  to 
follow  the  hangman's  lumbering  cart  up  Tyburn  Hill, 
and,  still  a  mere  imp  of  mischief,  he  would  run  the 
weary  way  from  Kensington  to  Shoe  Lane  on  the 
distant  chance  of  a  cock-fight.  He  was  present,  so  he 
would  relate  in  after  years,  when  Sir  Thomas  Jermin's 
man  put  his  famous  trick  upon  the  pit.  With  a 
hundred  pounds  in  his  pocket  and  under  his  arm  a 
dunghill  cock,  neatly  trimmed  for  the  fray,  the 
ingenious  ruffian,  as  Briscoe  would  tell  you,  went  off 
to  Shoe  Lane,  persuaded  an  accomplice  to  fight  the 
cock  in  Sir  Thomas  Jermin's  name,  and  laid  a  level 
hundred  against  his  own  bird.  So  lofty  was  Sir 
Thomas's  repute  that  backers  were  easily  found,  but 
the  dunghill  rooster  instantly  showed  a  clean  pair  of 
heels,  and  the  cheat  was  justified  of  his  cunning. 

Thus  Ralph  Briscoe  learnt  the  first  lessons  in  that  art 
of  sharping  wherein  he  was  afterwards  an  adept;  and 
when  he  left  school  his  head  was  packed  with  many  a 


RALPH  BRISCOE  99 

profitable  device  which  no  book  learning  could  impart. 
His  father,  however,  still  resolute  that  he  should  join 
an  intelligent  profession,  sent  him  to  Gray's  Inn  that 
he  might  study  law.  Here  the  elegance  of  his  hand- 
writing gained  him  a  rapid  repute;  his  skill  became 
the  envy  of  all  the  lean-souled  clerks  in  the  Inn,  and 
he  might  have  died  a  respectable  attorney  had  not  the 
instinct  of  sport  forced  him  from  the  inkpot  and 
parchment  of  his  profession.  Ill  could  he  tolerate  the 
monotony  and  restraint  of  this  clerkly  life.  In  his  eyes 
law  was  an  instrument,  not  of  justice,  but  of  jugglery. 
Men  were  born,  said  his  philosophy,  rather  to  risk 
their  necks  than  ink  their  fingers  ;  and  if  a  bold 
adventure  puts  you  in  a  difficulty,  why,  then,  you  hire 
some  straw-splitting  attorney  to  show  his  cunning. 
Indeed,  the  study  of  law  was  for  him,  as  it  was  for 
FalstafF,  an  excuse  for  many  a  bout  and  merry-making. 
He  loved  his  glass,  and  he  loved  his  wench,  and  he 
loved  a  bull-baiting  better  than  either.  It  was  his 
boast,  and  Moll  Cutpurse's  compliment,  that  he  never 
missed  a  match  in  his  life,  and  assuredly  no  man  was 
better  known  in  Paris  Garden  than  the  intrepid  Ralph 
Briscoe. 

The  cloistered  seclusion  of  Gray's  Inn  grew  daily 
more  irksome.  There  he  would  sit,  in  mute  despair, 
drumming  the  table  with  his  fingers,  and  biting  the 
quill,  whose  use  he  so  bitterly  contemned.  Of  winter 
afternoons  he  would  stare  through  the  leaded  window- 
panes  at  the  gaunt,  leafless  trees,  on  whose  summits 
swayed   the    cawing    rooks,    until   servitude    seemed 


100  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

intolerable,  and  he  prayed  for  the  voice  of  the  bear- 
ward  that  summoned  him  to  Southwark.  And  when 
the  chained  bear,  the  familiar  monkey  on  his  back^ 
followed  the  shrill  bagpipe  along  the  curious  street, 
Briscoe  felt  that  blood,  not  ink,  coursed  in  his  veins, 
forgot  the  tiresome  impediment  of  the  law,  and  joined 
the  throng,  hungry  for  this  sport  of  kings.  Nor  was 
he  the  patron  of  an  enterprise  wherein  he  dared  take 
no  part.  He  was  as  bold  and  venturesome  as  the 
bravest  ruffler  that  ever  backed  a  dog  at  a  baiting. 
When  the  bull,  cruelly  secured  behind,  met  the 
onslaught  of  his  opponents,  throwing  them  off,  now 
this  side,  now  that,  with  his  horns,  Briscoe,  lost  in 
excitement,  would  leap  into  the  ring  that  not  a  point 
of  the  combat  should  escape  him. 

So  it  was  that  he  won  the  friendship  of  his  illustrious 
benefactress,  Moll  Cutpurse.  For,  one  day,  when  he 
had  ventured  too  near  the  maddened  bull,  the  brute  made 
a  heave  at  his  breeches,  which  instantly  gave  way ;  and 
in  another  moment  he  would  have  been  gored  to  death, 
had  not  Moll  seized  him  by  the  collar  and  slung  him 
out  of  the  ring.  Thus  did  his  courage  ever  contradict 
his  appearance,  and  at  the  dangerous  game  of  whipping 
the  blinded  bear  he  had  no  rival,  either  for  bravery  or 
adroitness.  He  would  rush  in  with  uplifted  whip  until 
the  breath  of  the  infuriated  beast  was  hot  upon  his  cheek, 
let  his  angry  lash  curl  for  an  instant  across  the  bear's 
flank,  and  then,  for  all  his  halting  foot,  leap  back  into 
safety  with  a  smiling  pride  in  his  own  nimbleness. 

His  acquaintance  with  Moll  Cutpurse,  casually  begun 


RALPH  BRISCOE  loi 

at  a  bull-baiting,  speedily  ripened,  for  her  into  friend- 
ship, for  him  into  love.  In  this,  the  solitary  romance 
of  his  life,  Ralph  Briscoe  overtopped  even  his  ov^rir 
achievements  of  courage.  The  Roaring  Girl  was  no 
more  young,  and  years  had  not  refined  her  character 
unto  gentleness.  It  v^^as  still  her  habit  to  appear 
publicly  in  jerkin  and  galligaskins,  to  smoke  tobacco 
in  contempt  of  her  sex,  and  to  fight  her  enemies  with 
a  very  fury  of  insolence.  In  stature  she  exceeded  the 
limping  clerk  by  a  head,  and  she  could  pick  him  up 
with  one  hand,  like  a  kitten.  Yet  he  loved  her,  not 
for  any  grace  of  person,  nor  beauty  of  feature,  nor  even 
because  her  temperament  was  undaunted  as  his  own. 
He  loved  her  for  that  wisest  of  reasons,  which  is  no 
reason  at  all,  because  he  loved  her.  In  his  eyes  she 
was  the  Queen,  not  of  Misrule,  but  of  Hearts.  Had 
a  throne  been  his,  she  should  have  shared  it,  and  he 
wooed  her  with  a  shy  intensity,  which  ennobled  him, 
even  in  her  austere  regard.  Alas  !  she  was  unable  to 
return  his  passion,  and  she  lamented  her  own  obduracy 
with  characteristic  humour.  She  made  no  attempt 
to  conceal  her  admiration.  "A  notable  and  famous 
person,"  she  called  him,  confessing  that,  *'  he  was  right 
for  her  tooth,  and  made  to  her  mind  in  every  part  of 
him."  He  had  been  bred  up  in  the  same  exercise  of 
bull-baiting,  which  was  her  own  delight;  she  had 
always  praised  his  towardliness,  and  prophesied  his 
preferment.  But  when  he  paid  her  court  she  was 
obliged  to  decline  the  honour,  while  she  esteemed  the 
compliment.     In  truth,  she  was  completely  insensible 


102  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

to  passion,  or,  as  she  exclaimed  in  a  phrase  of  brilliant 
independence,  ''  I  should  have  hired  him  to  my 
embraces." 

The  sole  possibility  that  remained  was  a  Platonic 
friendship,  and  Briscoe  accepted  the  situation  in  excel- 
lent humour.  "  Ever  since  he  came  to  know  himself,'*^ 
again  it  is  Moll  that  speaks,  "he  always  deported  him- 
self to  me  with  an  abundance  of  regard,  calling  me  his 
Aunt."  And  his  aunt  she  remained  unto  the  end, 
bound  to  him  in  a  proper  and  natural  alliance.  Dif- 
ferent as  they  were  in  aspect,  they  were  strangely  alike 
in  taste  and  disposition.  Nor  was  the  Paris  Garden 
their  only  meeting  ground.  His  sorry  sojourn  in 
Gray's  Inn  had  thrown  him  on  the  side  of  the  law- 
breaker, and  he  had  acquired  a  strange  cunning  in  the 
difficult  art  of  evading  justice.  Instantly  Moll  recog- 
nised his  practical  value,  and,  exerting  all  her  talent  for 
intrigue,  presently  secured  for  him  the  Clerkship  of 
Newgate.  Here  at  last  he  found  scope  not  only  for 
his  learning,  but  for  that  spirit  of  adventure  that 
breathed  within  him.  His  meagre  acquaintance  with 
letters  placed  him  on  a  pinnacle  high  above  his  col- 
leagues. Now  and  then  a  prisoner  proved  his  equal  in 
wit,  but  as  he  was  manifestly  superior  in  intelligence 
to  the  Governor,  the  Ordinary,  and  all  the  warders,  he 
speedily  seized  and  hereafter  retained  the  real  sovereignty 
of  Newgate. 

His  early  progress  was  barred  by  envy  and  contempt. 
Why,  asked  the  men  in  possession,  should  this  shrivelled 
stranger  filch  our  privileges  ?     But  Briscoe  met  their 


RALPH  BRISCOE  103 

malice  with  an  easy  smile,  knowing  that  at  all  points 
he  was  more  than  their  match.  His  alliance  with 
Moll  stood  him  in  good  stead,  and  in  a  few  months  the 
twain  were  the  supreme  arbiters  of  English  justice. 
Should  a  highwayman  seek  to  save  his  neck,  he  must 
first  pay  a  fat  indemnity  to  the  Newgate  Clerk,  but, 
since  Moll  was  the  appointed  banker  of  the  whole 
family,  she  was  quick  to  sanction  whatever  price  her 
accomplice  suggested.  And  Briscoe  had  a  hundred 
other  tricks  whereby  he  increased  his  riches  and  repute. 
There  was  no  debtor  came  to  Newgate  whom  the 
Clerk  would  not  aid,  if  he  believed  the  kindness  profit- 
able. Suppose  his  inquiries  gave  an  assurance  of  his 
victim's  recovery,  he  would  house  him  comfortably, 
feed  him  at  his  own  table,  lend  him  money,  and  even 
condescend  to  win  back  the  generous  loan  by  the  dice- 
box. 

His  civility  gave  him  a  general  popularity  among 
the  prisoners,  and  his  appearance  in  the  Yard  was  a 
signal  for  a  subdued  hilarity.  He  drank  and  gambled 
with  the  roysterers;  he  babbled  a  cheap  philosophy 
with  the  erudite;  and  he  sold  the  necks  of  all  to 
the  highest  bidder.  Though  now  and  again  he  was 
convicted  of  mercy  or  revenge,  he  commonly  held 
himself  aloof  from  human  passions,  and  pursued  the 
one  sane  end  of  life  in  an  easy  security.  The  hostility 
of  his  colleagues  irked  him  but  little.  A  few  tags  of 
Latin,  the  friendship  of  Moll,  and  a  casual  threat  of 
exposure  frightened  the  Governor  into  acquiescence, 
but  the  Ordinary  was  more  difficult  of  conciliation. 


104  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

The  Clerk  had  not  been  long  in  Newgate  before  he 
saw  that  between  the  reverend  gentleman  and  himself 
there  could  be  naught  save  war.  Hitherto  the  Ordinary 
had  reserved  to  his  own  profit  the  right  of  intrigue; 
he  it  was  who  had  received  the  hard-scraped  money  of 
the  sorrowing  relatives,  and  untied  the  noose  when  it 
seemed  good  to  him.  But  Briscoe  insisted  upon  a 
division  of  labour.  **  It  is  your  business,"  he  said,  "  to 
save  the  scoundrels  in  the  other  world.  Leave  to  me 
the  profit  of  their  salvation  in  this."  And  the  Clerk 
triumphed  after  his  wont :  freedom  jingled  in  his 
pocket ;  he  doled  out  comfort,  even  life,  to  the  op- 
pressed ;  and  he  extorted  a  comfortable  fortune  in 
return  for  privileges  which  were  never  in  his  gift. 

Without  the  walls  of  Newgate  the  house  of  his  fre- 
quentation  was  the  "  Dog  Tavern."  Thither  he  would 
wander  every  afternoon  to  meet  his  clients  and  to 
extort  blood-money.  In  this  haunt  of  criminals  and 
pettifoggers  no  man  was  better  received  than  the 
Newgate  Clerk,  and  while  he  assumed  a  manner  of 
generous  cordiality,  it  was  a  strange  sight  to  see  him 
wince  when  some  sturdy  ruffian  slapped  him  too 
strenuously  upon  the  back.  He  had  a  joke  and  a 
chuckle  for  all,  and  his  merry  quips,  dry  as  they  were, 
were  joyously  quoted  to  all  new-comers.  His  legal 
ingenuity  appeared  miraculous,  and  it  was  confidently 
asserted  in  the  Coffee  House  that  he  could  turn  black 
to  white  with  so  persuasive  an  argument  that  there 
was  no  Judge  on  the  Bench  to  confute  him.  But  he 
was  not  omnipotent,  and  his  zeal  encountered  many  a 


RALPH  BRISCOE  105 

serious  check.  At  times  he  failed  to  save  the  necks 
€ven  of  his  intimates,  since  when  once  a  ruffian  was 
notorious,  Moll  and  the  Clerk  fought  vainly  for  his 
release.  Thus  it  was  that  Cheney,  the  famous  wrestler, 
whom  Ralph  had  often  backed  against  all  comers,  died 
at  Tyburn.  He  had  been  taken  by  the  troopers  red- 
handed  upon  the  highway.  Seized  after  a  desperate 
resistance,  he  was  wounded  well-nigh  to  death,  and 
Briscoe  quoted  a  dozen  precedents  to  prove  that  he 
was  unfit  to  be  tried  or  hanged.  Argument  failing, 
the  munificent  Clerk  offered  fifty  pounds  for  the  life 
of  his  friend.  But  to  no  purpose :  the  vaHant  wrestler 
was  carried  to  the  cart  in  a  chair,  and  so  lifted  to  the 
gallows,  which  cured  him  of  his  gaping  wounds. 

When  the  Commonwealth  administered  justice  with 
pedantic  severity,  Briscoe's  influence  still  further  de- 
clined. There  was  no  longer  scope  in  the  State  for 
men  of  spirit ;  even  the  gaols  were  handed  over  to  the 
stern  mercy  of  crop-eared  Puritans ;  Moll  herself  had 
fallen  upon  evil  times  ;  and  Ralph  Briscoe  determined 
to  make  a  last  effort  for  wealth  and  retirement.  At 
the  very  moment  when  his  expulsion  seemed  certain, 
an  heiress  was  thrown  into  Newgate  upon  a  charge  of 
murdering  a  too  importunate  suitor.  The  chain  of 
evidence  was  complete :  the  dagger  plunged  in  his 
heart  was  recognised  for  her  own  ;  she  was  seen  to 
decoy  him  to  the  secret  corner  of  a  wood,  where  his 
raucous  love-making  was  silenced  for  ever.  Taken  off 
her  guard,  she  had  even  hinted  confession  of  her  crime, 
and  nothing  but  intrigue  could  have  saved  her  gentle 


io6  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

neck  from  the  gallows.  Briscoe,  hungry  for  her 
money-bags,  promised  assistance.  He  bribed,  he 
threatened,  he  cajoled,  he  twisted  the  law  as  only  he 
could  twist  it,  he  suppressed  honest  testimony,  he  pro- 
cured false  ;  in  fine,  he  weakened  the  case  against  her 
with  so  resistless  an  effrontery,  that  not  the  Hanging^ 
Judge  himself  could  convict  the  poor  innocent. 

At  the  outset  he  had  agreed  to  accept  a  handsome 
bribe,  but  as  the  trial  approached,  his  avarice  increased,, 
and  he  would  be  content  with  nothing  less  than  the 
lady's  hand  and  fortune.  Not  that  he  loved  her;  his 
heart  was  long  since  given  to  Moll  Cutpurse  ;  but  he 
knew  that  his  career  of  depredation  was  at  an  end,  and 
it  became  him  to  provide  for  his  declining  years.  The 
victim  repulsed  his  suit,  regretting  a  thousand  times 
that  she  had  stabbed  her  ancient  lover.  But,  at  last, 
bidden  summarily  to  choose  between  Death  and  the 
Clerk,  she  chose  the  Clerk,  and  thus  Ralph  Briscoe 
left  Newgate  the  richest  squire  in  a  western  county^ 
Henceforth  he  farmed  his  land  like  a  gentleman,  drank 
with  those  of  his  neighbours  who  would  crack  a  bottle 
with  him,  and  unlocked  the  strange  stores  of  his 
memory  to  bumpkins  who  knew  not  the  name  of 
Newgate.  Still  devoted  to  sport,  he  hunted  the  fox,, 
and  made  such  a  bull-ring  as  his  youthful  imagination 
could  never  have  pictured.  So  he  lived  a  life  of  country 
ease,  and  died  a  churchwarden.  And  he  deserved  his 
prosperity,  for  he  carried  the  soul  of  FalstafF  in  the 
shrunken  body  of  Justice  Shallow. 


GILDEROY   AND    SIXTEEN- 
STRING   JACK 

I 

GILDEROY 


GILDEROY 

HE  stood  six  feet  ten  in  his  stockinged  feet,  and 
was  the  tallest  ruiEan  that  ever  cut  a  purse  or 
held  up  a  coach  on  the  highway,  A  mass  of  black 
hair  curled  over  a  low  forehead,  and  a  glittering  eye 
intensified  his  villainous  aspect ;  nor  did  a  deep  scar, 
furrowing  his  cheek  from  end  to  end,  soften  the  horror 
of  his  sudden  apparition.  Valiant  men  shuddered  at 
his  approach  j  women  shrank  from  the  distant  echo 
of  his  name;  for  fifteen  years  he  terrorised  Scotland 
from  Caithness  to  the  border ;  and  the  most  partial 
chronicler  never  insulted  his  niemory  with  the  record 
of  a  good  deed. 

He  was  born  to  a  gentle  family  in  the  Calendar  of 
Monteith,  and  was  celebrated  even  in  boyhood  for  his 
feats  of  strength  and  daring.  While  still  at  school 
he  could  hold  a  hundredweight  at  arm's-length,  and 
crumple  up  a  horseshoe  like  a  wisp  of  hay.  The 
fleetest  runner,  the  most  desperate  fighter  in  the 
country,  he  was  already  famous  before  his  name  was 
besmirched  with  crime,  and  he  might  have  been  im- 
mortalised as  the  Hercules  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
had  not  his  ambition  been  otherwise  flattered.     At  the 


no  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

outset,  though  the  inclination  was  never  lacking,  he 
knew  small  temptation  to  break  the  sterner  laws  of 
conduct.  His  pleasures  were  abundantly  supplied  by 
his  father's  generosity,  and  he  had  no  need  to  refrain 
from  such  vices  as  became  a  gentleman.  If  he  was  no 
drunkard,  it  was  because  his  head  was  equal  to  the 
severest  strain,  and,  despite  his  forbidding  expression, 
he  was  always  a  successful  breaker  of  hearts.  His  very 
masterfulness  overcame  the  most  stubborn  resistance  ; 
and  more  than  once  the  pressure  of  his  dishonourable 
suit  converted  hatred  into  love.  At  the  very  time  that 
he  was  denounced  for  Scotland's  disgrace,  his  praises 
were  chanted  in  many  a  dejected  ballad.  *'  Gilderoy 
was  a  bonny  boy,"  sang  one  heart-broken  maiden  : 

Had  roses  till  his  shoon, 
His  stockings  were  of  silken  soy, 
Wi'  garters  hanging  doon. 

But  in  truth  he  was  admired  less  for  his  amiability 
than  for  that  quaHty  of  governance  which,  when  once 
he  had  torn  the  decalogue  to  pieces,  made  him  a  verit- 
able emperor  of  crime. 

His  father's  death  was  the  true  beginning  of  his 
career.  A  modest  patrimony  was  squandered  in  six 
months,  and  Gilderoy  had  no  penny  left  wherewith  to 
satisfy  the  vices  which  insisted  upon  indulgence.  He 
demanded  money  at  all  hazards,  and  money  without 
toil.  For  a  while  his  more  clamant  needs  were  ful- 
filled by  the  amiable  simplicity  of  his  mother,  whom 
he  blackmailed  with  insolence  and  contempt.     And 


GILDEROY  III 

when  she,  wearied  by  his  shameless  importunity,  at 
last  withdrew  her  support,  he  determined  upon  a  mon- 
strous act  of  vengeance.  With  a  noble  affectation  of 
penitence  he  visited  his  home  ;  promised  reform  at 
supper;  and  said  good-night  in  the  broken  accent  of 
reconciliation.  But  no  sooner  was  the  house  sunk  in 
slumber  than  he  crawled  stealthily  upstairs  in  order 
to  forestall  by  theft  a  promised  generosity.  He  opened 
the  door  of  the  bed-chamber  in  a  hushed  silence; 
but  the  wrenching  of  the  cofFer-lid  awoke  the 
sleeper,  and  Gilderoy,  having  cut  his  mother's  throat 
with  an  infamous  levity,  seized  whatever  money  and 
jewels  were  in  the  house,  cruelly  maltreated  his  sister, 
and  laughingly  burnt  the  house  to  the  ground,  that  the 
possibility  of  evidence  might  be  destroyed. 

Henceforth  his  method  of  plunder  was  assured.  It  was 
part  of  his  philosophy  to  prevent  detection  by  murder, 
and  the  flames  from  the  burning  walls  added  a  pleasure  to 
his  lustful  eye.  His  march  across  Scotland  was  marked 
by  slaughtered  families  and  ruined  houses.  Plunder 
was  the  first  cause  of  his  exploits,  but  there  is  no  doubt 
that  death  and  arson  were  a  solace  to  his  fierce  spirit ; 
and  for  a  while  this  giant  of  cruelty  knew  neither  check 
nor  hindrance.  Presently  it  became  a  superstition 
with  him  that  death  was  the  inevitable  accompaniment 
of  robbery,  and,  as  he  was  incapable  of  remorse,  he 
grew  callous,  and  neglected  the  simplest  precautions. 
At  Dunkeld  he  razed  a  rifled  house  to  the  ground,  and 
with  the  utmost  effrontery  repeated  the  performance  at 
Aberdeen.     But  at  last  he  had  been  tracked  by  a  com- 


112  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

pany  of  soldiers,  who,  that  justice  might  not  be  cheated 
of  her  prey,  carried  him  to  gaol,  where  after  the 
briefest  trial  he  was  condemned  to  death. 

Gilderoy,  however,  was  still  master  of  himself.  His 
immense  strength  not  only  burst  his  bonds,  but  broke 
prison,  and  this  invincible  Samson  was  once  more  free 
in  Aberdeen,  inspiring  that  respectable  city  with  a 
legendary  dread.  The  reward  of  one  hundred  pounds 
was  offered  in  vain.  Had  he  shown  himself  on  the  road 
in  broad  daylight,  none  would  have  dared  to  arrest 
him,  and  it  was  not  until  his  plans  were  deliberately 
laid,  that  he  crossed  the  sea.  The  more  violent  period 
of  his  career  was  at  an  end.  Never  again  did  he  yield 
to  his  passion  for  burning  and  sudden  death ;  and,  if 
the  world  found  him  unconquerable,  his  self-control  is 
proved  by  the  fact  that  in  the  heyday  of  his  strength 
he  turned  from  his  unredeemed  brutality  to  a  gentler 
method.  He  now  deserted  Scotland  for  France,  with 
which,  like  all  his  countrymen,  he  claimed  a  cousin- 
ship  J  and  so  profoundly  did  he  impose  upon  Paris  with 
his  immense  stature,  his  elegant  attire,  his  courtly 
manners  (for  he  was  courtesy  itself,  when  it  pleased 
him),  that  he  was  taken  for  an  eminent  scholar,  or  at 
least  a  soldier  of  fortune. 

Prosperity  might  doubtless  have  followed  a  discreet 
profession,  but  Gilderoy  must  still  be  thieving,  and  he 
reaped  a  rich  harvest  among  the  unsuspicious  courtiers 
of  France.  His  most  highly  renowned  exploit  was 
performed  at  St.  Denis,  and  the  record  of  France's 
humiliation  is  still  treasured.     The  great  church  was 


GILDEROY  iij 

packed  with  ladies  of  fashion  and  their  devout  admirers, 
Richelieu  attended  in  state ;  the  king  himself  shone 
upon  the  assembly.  The  strange  Scotsman,  whom  no 
man  knew  and  all  men  wondered  at,  attracted  a  himdred 
eyes  to  himself  and  his  magnificent  equipment.  But 
it  was  not  his  to  be  idle,  and  at  the  very  moment 
whereat  Mass  was  being  sung,  he  contrived  to  lighten 
Richelieu's  pocket  of  a  purse.  The  king  was  a  delighted 
witness  of  the  theft ;  but  Gilderoy,  assuming  an  air  of 
facile  intimacy,  motioned  him  to  silence;  and  he, 
deeming  it  a  trick  put  upon  Richelieu  by  a  friend, 
hastened,  at  the  service-end,  to  ask  his  minister  if 
perchance  he  had  a  purse  of  gold  upon  him.  Richelieu 
instantly  discovered  the  loss,  to  the  king's  uncontrolled 
hilarity,  which  was  mitigated  when  it  was  found  that 
the  thief,  having  emptied  the  king's  pocket  at  the  un- 
guarded moment  of  his  merriment,  had  left  them  both 
the  poorer. 

Such  were  Gilderoy's  interludes  of  gaiety ;  and  when 
you  remember  the  cynical  ferocity  of  his  earlier  per- 
formance, you  cannot  deny  him  the  credit  of  versatility. 
He  stayed  in  France  until  his  ominous  reputation  was 
too  widely  spread  j  whereupon  he  crossed  the  Pyrenees, 
travelling  like  a  gentleman,  in  a  brilliant  carriage  of  his 
own.  From  Spain  he  carried  off  a  priceless  collection 
of  silver  plate  ;  and  he  returned  to  his  own  country, 
fatigued,  yet  unsoftened,  by  the  grand  tour.  Mean- 
while, a  forgetful  generation  had  not  kept  his  memory 
green.  The  monster,  who  punished  Scotland  a  year 
ago  with  fire  and  sword,  had  passed  into  oblivion,  and 

H 


114  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

Gilderoy  was  able  to  establish  for  himself  a  new  reputa- 
tion. He  departed  as  far  as  possible  from  his  ancient 
custom,  joined  the  many  cavaliers,  who  were  riding  up 
and  down  the  country,  pistol  in  hand,  and  presently 
proved  a  dauntless  highwayman.  He  had  not  long 
ridden  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Perth  before  he  met  the 
Earl  of  Linlithgow,  from  whom  he  took  a  gold  watch, 
a  diamond  ring,  and  eighty  guineas.  Being  an  outlaw, 
he  naturally  espoused  the  King's  cause,  and  would  have 
given  a  year  of  his  life  to  meet  a  Regicide.  Once  upon 
a  time,  says  rumour,  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
Oliver  Cromwell,  whom  he  dragged  from  his  coach, 
set  ignominiously  upon  an  ass,  and  so  turned  adrift 
with  his  feet  tied  under  the  beast's  belly.  But  the  story 
is  incredible,  not  only  because  the  loyal  historians  of  the 
time  caused  OHver  to  be  robbed  daily  on  every  road  in 
Great  Britain,  but  because  our  Gilderoy,  had  he  ever 
confronted  the  Protector,  most  assuredly  would  not 
have  allowed  him  to  escape  with  his  life. 

Tired  of  scouring  the  highway,  Gilderoy  resolved 
upon  another  enterprise.  He  collected  a  band  of  fearless 
ruffians,  and  placed  himself  at  their  head.  With  this 
army  to  aid,  he  harried  Sutherland  and  the  North, 
lifting  cattle,  plundering  homesteads,  and  stopping  way- 
farers with  a  humour  and  adroitness  worthy  of  Robin 
Hood.  No  longer  a  lawless  adventurer,  he  made  his 
own  conditions  of  life,  and  forced  the  people  to  obey 
them.  He  who  would  pay  Gilderoy  a  fair  contribution 
ran  no  risk  of  losing  his  sheep  or  oxen.  But  evasion 
was  impossible,  and  the  smallest  suspicion  of  falsehood 


GILDEROY  115 

was  punished  by  death.  The  peaceably  inclined  paid 
their  toll  with  regret;  the  more  daring  opposed  the 
raider  to  their  miserable  undoing ;  the  timid  satisfied 
the  utmost  exactions  of  Gilderoy,  and  deemed  them- 
selves fortunate  if  they  left  the  country  with  their  lives. 
Thus  Scotland  became  a  land  of  dread;  the  most 
restless  man  within  her  borders  hardly  dare  travel  beyond 
his  byre.  The  law  was  powerless  against  this  indomit- 
able scourge,  and  the  reward  of  a  thousand  marks  would 
have  been  offered  in  vain,  had  not  Gilderoy's  cruelty 
estranged  his  mistress.  This  traitress — Peg  Cunning- 
ham was  her  name — less  for  avarice  than  in  revenge 
for  many  insults  and  infidelities,  at  last  betrayed  her 
master.  Having  decoyed  him  to  her  house,  she  admitted 
fifty  armed  men,  and  thus  imagined  a  full  atonement 
for  her  unnumbered  wrongs.  But  Gilderoy  was 
triumphant  to  the  last.  Instantly  suspecting  the 
treachery  of  his  mistress,  he  burst  into  her  bed-chamber, 
and,  that  she  might  not  enjoy  the  price  of  blood,  ripped 
her  up  with  a  hanger.  Then  he  turned  defiant  upon 
the  army  arrayed  against  him,  and  killed  eight  men 
before  the  others  captured  him.  Disarmed  after  a 
desperate  struggle,  he  was  loaded  with  chains  and  carried 
to  Edinburgh,  where  he  was  starved  for  three  days, 
and  then  hanged  without  the  formdity  of  a  trial  on  a 
gibbet,  thirty  feet  high,  set  up  in  the  Grassmarket. 
But  even  then  Scotland's  vengeance  was  unsatisfied. 
The  body,  cut  down  from  its  first  gibbet,  was  hung  in 
chains  forty  feet  above  Leith  Walk,  where  it  creaked 
and  gibbered  as  a  warning  to  evildoers  for  half  a  century, 


ii6  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

until  at  last  the  inhabitants  of  that  respectable  quarter 
petitioned  that  Gilderoy's  bones  should  cease  to  rattle, 
and  that  they  should  enjoy  the  peace  impossible  for  his 
jingling  skeleton. 

Gilderoy  was  no  drawing-room  scoundrel,  no  villain 
of  schoolgirl  romance.  He  felt  remorse  as  little  as  he 
felt  fear,  and  there  was  no  crime  from  whose  com- 
mission he  shrank.  Before  his  death  he  confessed  to 
thirty-seven  murders,  and  bragged  that  he  had  long 
since  lost  count  of  his  robberies  and  rapes.  Something 
must  be  abated  for  boastfulness.  But  after  all  deduc- 
tion there  remains  a  tale  of  crime  that  is  unsurpassed. 
His  most  admirably  artistic  quality  is  his  complete 
consistence.  He  was  a  ruffian  finished  and  rotund ;  he 
made  no  concession,  he  betrayed  no  weakness.  Though 
he  never  preached  a  sermon  against  the  human  race,  he 
practised  a  brutality  which  might  have  proceeded  from 
a  gospel  of  hate.  He  spared  neither  friends  nor  relatives, 
and  he  murdered  his  own  mother  with  as  light  a  heart 
as  he  sent  a  strange  widow  of  Aberdeen  to  her  death. 
His  skill  is  undoubted,  and  he  proved  by  the  discipline 
of  his  band  that  he  was  not  without  some  talent  of 
generalship.  But  he  owed  much  of  his  success  to  his 
physical  strength,  and  to  the  temperament,  which  never 
knew  the  scandal  of  hesitancy  or  dread. 

A  born  marauder,  he  devoted  his  life  to  his  trade; 
and,  despite  his  travels  in  France  and  Spain,  he  en- 
joyed few  intervals  of  merriment.  Even  the  humour, 
which  proved  his  redemption,  was  as  dour  and  grim 
as  Scotland  can  furnish  at  her  grimmest  and  dourest. 


GILDEROY  117 

Here  is  a  specimen  will  serve  as  well  as  another : 
three  of  Gilderoy's  gang  had  been  hanged  according 
to  the  sentence  oF  a  certain  Lord  of  Session,  and 
the  Chieftain,  for  his  own  vengeance  and  the  intimi- 
<iation  of  justice,  resolved  upon  an  exemplary  punish- 
ment. He  waylaid  the  Lord  of  Session,  emptied  his 
pockets,  killed  his  horses,  broke  his  coach  in  pieces, 
and  having  bound  his  lackeys  drowned  them  in  a  pond. 
This  was  but  the  prelude  of  revenge,  for  presently 
(and  here  is  the  touch  of  humour)  he  made  him  ride  at 
dead  of  night  to  the  gallows,  whereon  the  three  male- 
factors were  hanging.  One  arm  of  the  crossbeams 
was  still  untenanted.  **  But  my  soul,  mon,"  cried 
Gilderoy  to  the  Lord  of  Session,  "  as  this  gibbet  is  built 
to  break  people's  craigs,  and  is  not  uniform  without 
another,  I  must  e'en  hang  you  upon  the  vacant  beam.'* 
And  straightway  the  Lord  of  Session  swung  in  the 
moonlight,  and  Gilderoy  had  cracked  his  black  and 
solemn  joke. 

But  this  sense  of  fun  is  the  single  trait  which  relieves 
the  colossal  turpitude  of  Gilderoy.  And,  though  even 
his  turpitude  was  melodramatic  in  its  lack  of  balance, 
It  is  this  unity  of  character  which  is  the  foundation 
of  his  greatness.  He  was  no  fumbler,  led  away  from 
his  purpose  by  the  first  diversion;  his  ambition  was 
clear  before  him,  and  he  never  fell  below  it.  He  defied 
Scotland  for  fifteen  years,  was  hanged  so  high  that  he 
passed  into  a  proverb,  and  though  his  handsome,  sinister 
face  might  have  made  women  his  slaves,  he  was  never 
betrayed  by  passion  (or  by  virtue)  to  an  amiability. 


II 

SIXTEEN-STRING  JACK 


SIXTEEN-STRING    JACK 

THE  "Green  Pig"  stood  in  the  solitude  of  the 
North  Road.  Its  simple  front,  its  neatly  balanced 
windows,  curtained  with  white,  gave  it  an  air  of 
comfort  and  tranquillity.  The  smoke  which  curled 
from  its  hospitable  chimney  spoke  of  warmth  and  good 
fare.  To  pass  it  was  to  spurn  the  last  chance  of  a 
bottle  for  many  a  weary  mile,  and  the  prudent 
traveller  would  always  rest  an  hour  by  its  ample 
fireside,  or  gossip  with  its  fantastic  hostess.  Now, 
the  hostess  of  the  little  inn  was  Ellen  Roach,  friend 
and  accomplice  of  Sixteen-String  Jack,  once  the  most 
famous  woman  in  England,  and  still  after  a  weary 
stretch  at  Botany  Bay  the  strangest  of  companions,  the 
most  buxom  of  spinsters.  Her  beauty  was  elusive 
even  in  her  triumphant  youth,  and  middle-age  had 
neither  softened  her  traits  nor  refined  her  expression. 
Her  auburn  hair,  once  the  glory  of  Covent  Garden, 
was  fading  to  a  withered  grey  j  she  was  never  tall 
enough  to  endure  an  encroaching  stoutness  with  equa- 
nimity ;  her  dumpy  figure  made  you  marvel  at  her  past 
success  ;  and  hardship  had  furrowed  her  candid  brow  into 
wrinkles.     But  when  she  opened  her  lips  she  became 


122  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

instantly  animated.  With  a  glass  before  her  on  the 
table,  she  would  prattle  frankly  and  engagingly  of  the 
past.  Strange  cities  had  she  seen;  she  had  faced  the 
dangers  of  an  adventurous  life  with  calmness  and  good 
temper.  And  yet  Botany  Bay,  with  its  attendant 
horrors,  was  already  fading  from  her  memory.  In 
imagination  she  was  still  with  her  incomparable  hero, 
and  it  was  her  solace,  after  fifteen  years,  to  sing 
the  praise  and  echo  the  perfections  of  Sixteen-String 
Jack. 

"  How  well  I  remember,"  she  would  murmur,  as 
though  unconscious  of  her  audience,  "the  unhappy 
day  when  Jack  Rann  was  first  arrested.  It  was  May, 
and  he  came  back  travel-stained  and  weary  in  the 
brilliant  dawn.  He  had  stopped  a  one-horse  shay  near 
the  nine-mile  stone  on  the  Hounslow  Road — every 
word  of  his  confession  is  burnt  into  my  brain — and  had 
taken  a  watch  and  a  handful  of  guineas.  I  was  glad 
enough  of  the  money,  for  there  was  no  penny  in  the 
house,  and  presently  I  sent  the  maid-servant  to  make 
the  best  bargain  she  could  with  the  watch.  But  the 
silly  jade,  by  the  saddest  of  mishaps,  took  the  trinket 
straight  to  the  very  man  who  made  it,  and  he,  suspect- 
ing a  theft,  had  us  both  arrested.  Even  then  Jack 
might  have  been  safe,  had  not  the  devil  prompted  me 
to  speak  the  truth.  Dismayed  by  the  magistrate,  I 
owned,  wretched  woman  that  I  was,  that  I  had 
received  the  watch  from  Rann,  and  in  two  hours  Jack 
also  was  under  lock  and  key.  Yet,  when  we  were 
sent  for  trial  I  made  what  amends  I  could.     I  declared 


SIXTEEN-STRING  JACK  123 

on  oath  that  I  had  never  seen  Sixteen-String  Jack  in 
my  life  ;  his  name  came  to  my  lips  by  accident ;  and, 
hector  as  they  would,  the  lawyers  could  not  frighten 
me  to  an  acknowledgment.  Meanwhile  Jack's  own 
behaviour  was  superb.  I  was  the  proudest  woman  in 
England  as  I  stood  by  his  side  in  the  dock.  When 
you  compared  him  with  Sir  John  Fielding,  you  did  not 
doubt  for  an  instant  which  was  the  finer  gentleman. 
And  what  a  dandy  was  my  Jack  !  Though  he  came 
there  to  answer  for  his  life,  he  was  all  ribbons  and 
furbelows.  His  irons  were  tied  up  with  the  daintiest 
blue  bows,  and  in  the  breast  of  his  coat  he  carried  a 
bundle  of  flowers  as  large  as  a  birch-broom.  His  neck 
quivered  in  the  noose,  yet  he  was  never  cowed  to  civility. 
'  I  know  no  more  of  the  matter  than  you  do,'  he  cried 
indignantly,  *nor  half  so  much  neither,'  and  if  the 
magistrate  had  not  been  an  ill-mannered  oaf,  he  would 
not  have  dared  to  disbelieve  my  true-hearted  Jack. 
That  time  we  escaped  with  whole  skins  ;  and  off  we 
went,  after  dinner,  to  Vauxhall,  where  Jack  was  more 
noticed  than  the  fiercest  of  the  bloods,  and  where  he 
filled  the  heart  of  George  Barrington  with  envy.  Nor 
was  he  idle,  despite  his  recent  escape  :  he  brought  away 
two  watches  and  three  purses  from  the  Garden,  so  that 
our  necessities  were  amply  supplied.  Ah,  I  should 
have  been  happy  in  those  days  if  only  Jack  had  been 
feithful.  But  he  had  a  roving  eye  and  a  joyous 
temperament ;  and  though  he  loved  me  better  than  any 
of  the  baggages  to  whom  he  paid  court,  he  would  not 
visit  me  so  often  as  he  should.     Why,  once  he  was 


124  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

hustled  off  to  Bow  Street  because  the  watch  caught 
him  climbing  in  at  Doll  Frampton's  window.  And 
she,  the  shameless  minx,  got  him  off  by  declaring  in 
open  court  that  she  would  be  proud  to  receive  him 
whenever  he  would  deign  to  ring  at  her  bell.  But 
that  is  the  penalty  of  loving  a  great  man :  you  must 
needs  share  his  affection  with  a  set  of  unworthy 
wenches.  Yet  Jack  was  always  kind  to  me,  and  I  was 
the  chosen  companion  of  his  pranks. 

"  Never  can  I  forget  the  splendid  figure  he  cut  that 
day  at  Bagnigge  Wells.  We  had  driven  down  in  our 
coach,  and  all  the  world  marvelled  at  our  magnificence. 
Jack  was  brave  in  a  scarlet  coat,  a  tambour  waistcoat, 
and  white  silk  stockings.  From  the  knees  of  his 
breeches  streamed  the  strings  (eight  at  each),  whence 
he  got  his  name,  and  as  he  plucked  off  his  lace-hat  the 
dinner-table  rose  at  him.  That  was  a  moment  worth 
living  for,  and  when,  after  his  first  bottle.  Jack  rattled 
the  glasses,  and  declared  himself  a  highwayman,  the 
whole  company  shuddered.  *But,  my  friends,'  quoth 
he,  *  to-day  I  am  making  holiday,  so  that  you  have 
naught  to  fear.'  When  the  wine's  in,  the  wit's  out> 
and  Jack  could  never  stay  his  hand  from  the  bottle. 
The  more  he  drank,  the  more  he  bragged,  until, 
thoroughly  fuddled,  he  lost  a  ring  from  his  finger,  and 
charged  the  miscreants  in  the  room  with  stealing  it, 
*■  However,'  hiccupped  he,  *  'tis  a  mere  nothing,  worth 
a  paltry  hundred  pounds — less  than  a  lazy  evening's 
work.  So  I'll  let  the  trifling  theft  pass.'  But  the 
cowards  were  not  content  with  Jack's  generosity,  and 


SIXTEEN-STRING  JACK  125 

seizing  upon  him,  they  thrust  him  neck  and  crop 
through  the  window.  They  were  seventeen  to  one, 
the  craven-hearted  loons ;  and  I  could  but  leave  the 
marks  of  my  nails  on  the  cheek  of  the  foremost,  and 
follow  my  hero  into  the  yard,  where  we  took  coach, 
and  drove  sulkily  back  to  Covent  Garden. 

"  And  yet  he  was  not  always  in  a  mad  humour ;  in 
fact,  Sixteen-String  Jack,  for  all  his  gaiety,  was  a  proud, 
melancholy  man.  The  shadow  of  the  tree  was  always 
upon  him,  and  he  would  make  me  miserable  by  talking 
of  his  certain  doom.  *  I  have  a  hundred  pounds  in  my 
pocket,'  he  would  say ;  '  I  shall  spend  that,  and  then 
I  sha'n't  last  long.'  And  though  I  never  thought  him 
serious,  his  prophecy  came  true  enough.  Only  a  few 
months  before  the  end  we  had  visited  Tyburn  together. 
With  his  usual  carelessness,  he  passed  the  line  of 
constables  who  were  on  guard.  *It  is  very  proper,* 
said  he,  in  his  jauntiest  tone,  *that  I  should  be  a 
spectator  on  this  melancholy  occasion.'  And  though 
none  of  the  dullards  took  his  jest,  they  instantly  made 
way  for  him.  For  my  Jack  was  always  a  gentleman, 
though  he  was  bred  to  the  stable,  and  his  bitterest 
enemy  could  not  have  denied  that  he  was  handsome. 
His  open  countenance  was  as  honest  as  the  day,  and 
the  brown  curls  over  his  forehead  were  more  elegant 
than  the  smartest  wig.  Wherever  he  went  the  world 
did  him  honour,  and  many  a  time  my  vanity  was 
sorely  wounded.  I  was  a  pretty  girl,  mind  you, 
though  my  travels  have  not  improved  my  beauty  ;  and 
I  had  many  admirers  before  ever  I  picked  up  Jack 


126  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

Rann  at  a  masquerade.  Why,  there  was  a  Templar, 
with  two  thousand  a  year,  who  gave  me  a  carriage  and 
servants  while  I  still  lived  at  the  dressmaker's  in  Oxford 
Street,  and  I  was  not  out  of  my  teens  when  the  old 
Jew  in  St.  Mary  Axe  took  me  into  keeping.  But 
when  Jack  was  by,  I  had  no  chance  of  admiration. 
All  the  eyes  were  glued  upon  him,  and  his  poor  doxy 
had  to  be  content  with  a  furtive  look  thrown  over  a 
stranger's  shoulder.  At  Barnet  races,  tlie  year  before 
they  sent  me  across  the  sea,  we  were  followed  by  a 
crowd  the  livelong  day;  and  truly  Jack,  in  his  blue 
satin  waistcoat  laced  with  silver,  might  have  been  a 
peer.  At  any  rate,  he  had  not  his  equal  on  the  course, 
and  it  is  small  wonder  that  never  for  a  moment  were 
we  left  to  ourselves. 

**But  happiness  does  not  last  for  ever ;  only  too  often 
we  were  pinched  for  money,  and  Jack,  finding  his  purse 
empty,  could  do  naught  else  than  hire  a  hackney  and 
take  to  the  road  again,  while  I  used  to  lie  awake 
listening  to  the  watchman's  raucous  voice,  and  praying 
God  to  send  back  my  warrior  rich  and  scathless. 
So  times  grew  more  and  more  difficult.  Jack  would 
stay  a  whole  night  upon  the  heath,  and  come  home 
with  an  empty  pocket  or  a  beggarly  half-crown.  And 
there  was  nothing,  after  a  shabby  coat,  that  he  hated 
half  so  much  as  a  sheriff's  officer.  '  Learn  a  lesson  in 
politeness,'  he  said  to  one  of  the  wretches  who  dragged 
him  off  to  the  Marshalsea.  '  When  Sir  John  Fielding's 
people  come  after  me  they  use  me  genteelly;  they 
only  hold  up  a  finger,  beckon  me,  and  I  follow  as 


SIXTEEN-STRING  JACK  127 

quietly  as  a  lamb.  But  you  bluster  and  insult,  as 
though  you  had  never  dealings  with  gentlemen.'  Poor 
Jack,  he  was  of  a  proud  stomach,  and  could  not 
abide  interference  j  yet  they  would  never  let  him  go 
free.  And  he  would  have  been  so  happy  had  he  been 
allowed  his  own  way.  To  pull  out  a  rusty  pistol  now 
and  again,  and  to  take  a  purse  from  a  traveller — surely 
these  were  innocent  pleasures,  and  he  never  meant  to 
hurt  a  fellow-creature.  But  for  all  his  kindness  of 
heart,  for  all  his  love  of  splendour  and  fine  clothes, 
they  took  him  at  last. 

"  And  this  time,  too,  it  was  a  watch  which  was  our 
ruin.  How  often  did  I  warn  him :  'Jack,'  I  would 
say,  '  take  all  the  money  you  can.  Guineas  tell  no 
tale.  But  leave  the  watches  in  their  owners'  fobs.* 
Alas  !  he  did  not  heed  my  words,  and  the  last  man  he 
ever  stopped  on  the  road  was  that  pompous  rascal.  Dr. 
Bell,  then  chaplain  to  the  Princess  Amelia.  *  Give  me 
your  money,'  screamed  Jack,  *  and  take  no  notice  or 
I'll  blow  your  brains  out.'  And  the  doctor  gave  him 
all  that  he  had,  the  mean-spirited  devil-dodger,  and  it 
was  no  more  than  eighteenpence.  Now  what  should 
a  man  of  courage  do  with  eighteenpence  ?  So  poor 
Jack  was  forced  to  seize  the  parson's  watch  and  trinkets 
as  well,  and  thus  it  was  that  we  stood  a  second  time  at 
the  Old  Bailey.  When  Jack  brought  home  the  watch, 
I  was  seized  with  a  shuddering  presentiment,  and  I 
would  have  given  the  world  to  throw  it  out  of  the 
window.  But  I  could  not  bear  to  see  him  pinched 
with  hunger,  and  he  had  already  tossed  the  doctor's 


128  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

eighteenpence  to  a  beggar  woman.  So  I  trudged  ofF 
to  the  pawnbroker's,  to  get  what  price  I  could,  and  I 
bethought  me  that  none  would  know  me  for  what  I 
was  so  far  away  as  Oxford  Street.  But  the  monster 
behind  the  counter  entertained  an  instant  suspicion, 
though  I  swear  I  looked  as  innocent  as  a  babe ;  he 
discovered  the  owner  of  the  watch,  and  infamously 
followed  me  to  my  house. 

"  The  next  day  we  were  both  arrested,  and  once  more 
we  stood  in  the  hot,  stifling  Court  of  the  Old  Bailey. 
Jack  was  radiant  as  ever,  the  one  spot  of  colour  and 
gaiety  in  that  close,  sodden  atmosphere.  When  we 
were  taken  from  Bow  Street  a  thousand  people  formed 
our  guard  of  honour,  and  for  a  month  we  were  the 
twin  wonders  of  London.  The  lightest  word,  the 
fleetest  smile  of  the  renowned  highwayman,  threw  the 
world  into  a  fit  of  excitement,  and  a  glimpse  of  Rann 
was  worth  a  king's  ransom.  And  I  could  look  upon 
him  all  day  for  nothing !  And  I  knew  what  a  fever 
of  apprehension  throbbed  behind  his  mask  of  happy 
contempt.  Yet  bravely  he  played  the  part  unto  the 
very  end.  If  the  toasts  of  London  were  determined 
to  gaze  at  him,  he  assured  them  they  should  have  a 
proper  salve  for  their  eyes.  And  so  he  dressed  himself 
as  a  lighthearted  sportsman.  His  coat  and  waistcoat 
were  of  pea-green  cloth ;  his  buckskin  breeches  were 
spotlessly  new,  and  all  tricked  out  with  the  famous 
strings ;  his  hat  was  bound  round  with  silver  cords ;  and 
even  the  ushers  of  the  Court  were  touched  to  courtesy. 
He  would  whisper  to  me,  as  we  stood  in  the  dock. 


SIXTEEN-STRING  JACK  129 

*  Cheer  up,  my  girl.  I  have  ordered  the  best  supper 
that  Covent  Garden  can  provide,  and  we  will  make 
merry  to-night  when  this  foolish  old  judge  has  done 
his  duty.'  But  the  supper  was  never  eaten.  Through 
the  weary  afternoon  we  waited  for  acquittal.  The 
autumn  sun  sank  in  hopeless  gloom.  The  wretched 
lamps  twinkled  through  the  jaded  air  of  the  court-house. 
In  an  hour  I  lived  a  thousand  years  of  misery,  and  when 
the  sentence  was  read,  the  words  carried  no  sense  to 
my  withered  brain.  It  was  only  in  my  cell  I  realised 
that  I  had  seen  Jack  Rann  for  the  last  time ;  that  his 
pea-green  coat  would  prove  a  final  and  ineffaceable 
memory. 

"  Alas  !  I,  who  had  never  been  married,  was  already  a 
hempen  widow ;  but  I  was  too  hopelessly  heartbroken 
for  my  lover's  fate  to  think  of  my  own  paltry  hardship. 
I  never  saw  him  again.  They  told  me  that  he  suffered 
at  Tyburn  like  a  man,  and  that  he  counted  upon  a 
rescue  to  the  very  end.  They  told  me  (still  bitterer 
news  to  hear)  that  two  days  before  his  death  he  enter- 
tained seven  women  at  supper,  and  was  in  the  wildest 
humour.  This  almost  broke  my  heart ;  it  was  an  in- 
fidelity committed  on  the  other  side  of  the  grave. 
But,  poor  Jack,  he  was  a  good  lad,  an^  loved  me  more 
than  them  all,  though  he  never  could  be  faithful  to 
me."  And  thus,  bidding  the  drawer  bring  fresh 
glasses,  Ellen  Roach  would  end  her  story.  Though 
she  had  told  it  a  hundred  times,  at  the  last  words  a 
tear  always  sparkled  in  her  eye.  She  lived  without 
friend  and  without  lover,  faithfiil  to  the  memory  of 

I 


130  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

Sixteen-String  Jack,  who  for  her  was  the  only  reality 
in  a  world  of  shades.  Her  middle-age  was  as  distant 
as  her  youth.  The  dressmaker's  in  Oxford  Street  was 
as  vague  a  dream  as  the  inhospitable  shore  of  Botany 
Bay.  So  she  waited  on  to  a  weary  eld,  proud 
of  the  "  Green  Pig's  "  well-ordered  comfort,  prouder 
still  that  for  two  years  she  shared  the  glory  of  Jack 
Rann,  and  that  she  did  not  desert  her  hero,  even  in  his 
punishment. 


Ill 

A    PARALLEL 

(GILDEROY  AND  SIXTEEN- 
STRING  JACK) 


A    PARALLEL 

(GILDEROY  AND   SIXTEEN-STRING  JACK) 

THEIR  closest  parallel  is  the  notoriety  which  dogged 
them  from  the  very  day  of  their  death.  Each,  for 
his  own  exploits,  was  the  most  famous  man  of  his 
time,  the  favourite  of  broadsheets,  the  prime  hero  of  the 
ballad-mongers.  And  each  owed  his  fame  as  much  to 
good  fortune  as  to  merit,  since  both  were  excelled  in 
their  generation  by  more  skilful  scoundrels.  If  Gil- 
deroy  was  unsurpassed  in  brutality,  he  fell  immeasur- 
ably below  Hind  in  artistry  and  wit,  nor  may  he  be 
compared  to  such  accomplished  highwaymen  as  Mull 
Sack  or  the  Golden  Farmer.  His  method  was  not 
elevated  by  a  touch  of  the  grand  style.  He  stamped 
all  the  rules  of  the  road  beneath  his  contemptuous  foot, 
and  cared  not  what  enormity  he  committed  in  his 
quest  for  gold.  Yet,  though  he  lived  in  the  true 
Augustan  age,  he  yielded  to  no  one  of  his  rivals  in 
glorious  recognition.  So,  too.  Jack  Rann,  of  the  Six- 
teen Strings,  was  a  near  contemporary  of  George  Bar- 
rington.  While  that  nimble-fingered  prig  was  making 
a  brilliant  appearance  at  Vauxhall,  and  emptying  the 


134  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

pockets  of  his  intimates,  Rann  was  riding  over  Houns- 
low  Heath,  and  flashing  his  pistol  in  the  eye  of  the 
wayfarer.  The  very  year  in  which  Jack  danced  his 
last  jig  at  Tyburn,  Barrington  had  astonished  London 
by  a  fruitless  attempt  to  steal  Prince  OrlofPs  miraculous 
snufF-box.  And  not  even  Ellen  Roach  herself  would 
have  dared  to  assert  that  Rann  was  Barrington's  equal 
in  sleight  of  hand.  But  Rann  holds  his  own  against 
the  best  of  his  craft,  with  an  imperishable  name,  while 
a  host  of  more  distinguished  cracksmen  are  excluded 
even  from  the  Newgate  Calendar. 

But,  in  truth,  there  is  one  quality  which  has  naught 
to  do  with  artistic  supremacy ;  and  in  this  quality  both 
Rann  and  Gilderoy  were  rich  beyond  their  fellows. 
They  knew  (none  better)  how  to  impose  upon  the 
world.  Had  their  deserts  been  even  less  than  they 
were,  they  would  still  have  been  bravely  notorious.  It 
is  a  common  superstition  that  the  talent  for  advertise- 
ment  has  but  a  transitory  effect,  that  time  sets  all  men  in 
their  proper  places.  Nothing  can  be  more  false  j  for  he 
who  has  once  declared  himself  among  the  great  ones  of 
the  earth,  not  only  holds  his  position  while  he  lives^ 
but  forces  an  unreasoning  admiration  upon  the  future. 
He  declines  from  the  lofty  throne,  whereon  his  own 
vanity  and  love  of  praise  have  set  him,  but  he  still 
stands  above  the  modest  level  which  contents  the 
genuinely  great.  Why  does  Euripides  still  throw  a 
shadow  upon  the  worthier  poets  of  his  time  ?  Because 
he  had  the  faculty  of  displacement,  because  he  could 
compel  the  world  to  profess  an  interest  not  only  in  his 


A  PARALLEL  135 

work  but  in  himself.  Why  is  Michael  Angelo  a 
loftier  figure  in  the  history  of  art  than  Donatello, 
the  supreme  sculptor  of  his  time  ?  Because  Donatello 
had  not  the  temper  which  would  bully  a  hundred  popes, 
and  extract  a  magnificent  advertisement  from  each 
encounter.  Why  does  Shelley  still  claim  a  larger  share 
of  the  world's  admiration  than  Keats,  his  indubitable 
superior  ?  Because  Shelley  was  blessed  or  cursed  with 
the  trick  of  interesting  the  world  by  a  side  issue. 

So  by  a  similar  faculty  Gilderoy  and  Jack  Rann  have 
kept  themselves  and  their  achievements  in  the  light  of 
day.  Had  they  lived  in  the  nineteenth  century  they 
might  have  been  the  vendors  of  patent  pills,  or  the 
chairmen  of  bubble  companies.  But  whatever  trade 
they  had  followed,  their  names  would  have  been  on 
every  hoarding,  their  wares  would  have  been  puffed  in 
every  journal.  They  understood  the  art  of  publicity 
better  than  any  of  their  contemporaries,  and  they  are 
remembered  not  because  they  were  the  best  thieves  of 
their  time,  but  because  they  were  determined  to  in- 
terest the  people  in  their  misdeeds.  Gilderoy's  bruta- 
lity, which  was  always  theatrical,  ensured  a  constant 
remembrance,  and  the  lofty  gallows  added  to  his 
repute ;  while  the  brilliant  inspiration  of  the  strings 
which  decorated  Rann's  breeches,  was  sufficient  to 
conquer  death.  How  should  a  hero  sink  to  oblivion 
who  had  chosen  for  himself  so  splendid  a  name  as 
Sixteen-String  Jack  ? 

So  far,  then,  their  achievement   is    parallel.     And 
parallel  also  is  their  taste  for  melodrama.     Each  em- 


136  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

ployed  means  too  great  or  too  violent  for  the  end  in 
view.  Gilderoy  burnt  houses  and  ravished  w^omen, 
when  his  sole  object  was  the  acquisition  of  money. 
Sixteen-String  Jack  terrified  Bagnigge  Wells  with  the 
dreadful  announcement  that  he  was  a  highwayman, 
when  his  kindly,  stupid  heart  would  have  shrunk  from 
the  shedding  of  a  drop  of  blood.  So  they  both 
blustered  through  the  world,  the  one  in  deed,  the 
other  in  word  ;  and  both  played  their  parts  with  so 
little  refinement  that  they  frightened  the  groundlings 
to  a  timid  admiration.  But  here  the  resemblance  is  at 
an  end.  In  the  essentials  of  their  trade  Gilderoy  was 
a  professional,  Rann  a  mere  amateur.  They  both 
bullied  i  but,  while  Sixteen-String  Jack  was  content 
to  shout  threats,  and  pick  up  half-a-crown,  Gilderoy 
breathed  murder,  and  demanded  a  vast  ransom.  Only 
once  in  his  career  did  the  "disgraceful  Scotsman" 
become  gay  and  debonair.  Only  once  did  he  relax 
the  tension  of  his  frown,  and  pick  pockets  with  the 
lightness  and  freedom  of  a  gentleman.  It  was  on  his 
voyage  to  France  that  he  forgot  his  old  policy  of  arson 
and  pillage,  and  truly  the  Court  of  the  Great  King  was 
not  the  place  for  his  rapacious  cruelty.  Jack  Rann,  on 
the  other  hand,  would  have  taken  life  as  a  prolonged 
jest,  if  Sir  John  Fielding  and  the  sheriffs  had  not 
checked  his  mirth.  He  was  but  a  bungler  on  the 
road,  with  no  more  resource  than  he  might  have 
learned  from  the  common  chap-book,  or  from  the 
dying  speeches,  hawked  in  Newgate  Street.  But  he 
had  a  fine  talent  for  merriment  j  he  loved  nothing  so 


A  PARALLEL  137 

well  as  a  smart  coat  and  a  pretty  woman.  Thieving 
was  no  passion  with  him,  but  a  necessity.  How  could 
he  dance  at  a  masquerade  or  court  his  Ellen  with  an 
empty  pocket  ?  So  he  took  to  the  road  as  the  sole 
profession  of  an  idle  man,  and  he  bullied  his  way  from 
Hounslow  to  Epping  in  sheer  lightness  of  heart.  After 
all,  to  rob  Dr.  Bell  of  eighteenpence  was  the  work  of 
a  simpleton.  But  it  was  a  very  pretty  taste  which 
expressed  itself  in  a  pea-green  coat  and  deathless  strings ; 
and  Rann  will  keep  posterity's  respect  rather  for  the 
accessories  of  his  art  than  for  the  art  itself.  On  the 
other  hand,  you  cannot  imagine  Gilderoy  habited 
otherwise  than  in  black ;  you  cannot  imagine  this 
monstrous  matricide  taking  pleasure  in  the  smaller 
elegancies  of  life.  From  first  to  last  he  was  the  stern 
and  beetle-browed  marauder,  who  would  have  despised 
the  frippery  of  Sixteen-String  Jack  as  vehemently  as 
his  sudden  appearance  would  have  frightened  the  fop- 
pish lover  of  Ellen  Roach. 

Their  conduct  with  women  is  sufficient  index  of 
their  character.  Jack  Rann  was  too  general  a  lover 
for  fidelity.  But  he  was  amiable,  even  in  his  unfaith- 
fulness ;  he  won  the  undying  affection  of  his  Ellen  ; 
he  never  stood  in  the  dock  without  a  nosegay  tied  up 
by  fair  and  nimble  fingers ;  he  was  attended  to  Tyburn 
by  a  bevy  of  distinguished  admirers.  Gilderoy,  on  the 
other  hand,  approached  women  in  a  spirit  of  violence. 
His  Sadie  temper  drove  him  to  kill  those  whom  he 
affected  to  love.  And  his  cruelty  was  amply  repaid. 
While  Ellen  Roach  perjured  herself  to  save  the  lover, 


138  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

to  whose  memory  she  professed  a  life-long  loyalty,  it 
was  Peg  Cunningham  who  wreaked  her  vengeance  in 
the  betrayal  of  Gilderoy.  He  remained  true  to  his 
character,  when  he  ripped  up  the  belly  of  his  betrayer. 
This  was  the  closing  act  of  his  life.  Rann,  also,  was 
consistent,  even  to  the  gallows.  The  night  before  his 
death  he  entertained  seven  women  at  supper,  and  out- 
laughed  them  all.  But  the  contrast  is  not  so  violent 
as  it  appears.  The  one  act  is  melodrama,  the  other 
farce.  And  what  is  farce,  but  melodrama  in  a  happier 
shape  ? 


THOMAS    PURENEY 


THOMAS    PURENEY 

THOMAS  PURENEY,  Archbishop  among 
Ordinaries,  lived  and  preached  in  the  heyday 
of  Newgate.  His  was  the  good  fortune  to  witness 
Sheppard's  encounter  with  the  topsman,  and  to  shrive 
the  battered  soul  of  Jonathan  Wild.  Nor  did  he  fall 
one  inch  below  his  opportunity.  Designed  by  Pro- 
vidence to  administer  a  final  consolation  to  the  evil- 
doer, he  permitted  no  false  ambition  to  distract  his 
talent.  As  some  men  are  born  for  the  gallows,  so  he 
was  born  to  thump  the  cushion  of  a  prison  pulpit ;  and 
his  peculiar  aptitude  was  revealed  to  him  before  he  had 
time  to  spend  his  strength  in  mistaken  endeavour. 

For  thirty  years  his  squat,  stout  figure  was  amiably 
familiar  to  all  such  as  enjoyed  the  Liberties  of  the  Jug. 
For  thirty  years  his  mottled  nose  and  the  rubicundity 
of  his  cheeks  were  the  ineffaceable  ensigns  of  his  in- 
temperance. Yet  there  was  a  grimy  humour  in  his 
forbidding  aspect.  The  fusty  black  coat,  which  sat 
ill  upon  his  shambling  frame,  was  all  besmirched  with 
spilled  snufF,  and  the  lees  of  a  thousand  quart  pots. 
The  bands  of  his  profession  were  ever  awry  upon  a 
tattered  shirt.     His  ancient   wig  scattered  dust  and 


142  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

powder  as  he  went,  while  a  single  buckle  of  some 
tawdry  metal  gave  a  look  of  oddity  to  his  clumsy,  slip- 
shod feet.  A  caricature  of  a  man,  he  ambled  and 
chuckled  and  seized  the  easy  pleasures  within  his  reach. 
There  was  never  a  summer's  day  but  he  caught  upon 
his  brow  the  few  faint  gleams  of  sunlight  that  pene- 
trated the  gloomy  yard.  Hour  after  hour  he  would 
sit,  his  short  fingers  hardly  linked  across  his  belly, 
drinking  his  cup  of  ale,  and  puffing  at  a  half-extin- 
guished tobacco-pipe.  Meanwhile  he  would  reflect 
upon  those  triumphs  of  oratory  which  were  his 
supreme  delight.  If  it  fell  on  a  Monday  that  he  took 
the  air,  a  smile  of  satisfaction  lit  up  his  fat,  loose  fea- 
tures, for  still  he  pondered  the  effect  of  yesterday's 
masterpiece.  On  Saturday  the  glad  expectancy  of  to- 
morrow lent  him  a  certain  joyous  dignity.  At  other 
times  his  eye  lacked  lustre,  his  gesture  buoyancy, 
unless  indeed  he  were  called  upon  to  follow  the  cart  to 
Tyburn,  or  to  compose  the  Last  Dying  Speech  of 
some  notorious  malefactor. 

Preaching  was  the  master  passion  of  his  life.  It 
was  the  pulpit  that  reconciled  him  to  exile  within  a 
great  city,  and  persuaded  him  to  the  enjoyment  of 
roguish  company.  Those  there  were  who  deemed  his 
career  unfortunate ;  but  a  sense  of  fitness  might  have 
checked  their  pity,  and  it  was  only  in  his  hours  of 
maudlin  confidence  that  the  Reverend  Thomas  con- 
fessed to  disappointment.  Born  of  respectable  parents 
in  the  County  of  Cambridgeshire,  he  nurtured  his 
youth  upon  the  exploits  of  James  Hind  and  the  Golden 


THOMAS  PURENEY  143 

Farmer.  His  boyish  pleasure  was  to  lie  in  the  ditch, 
which  bounded  his  father's  orchard,  studying  that  now 
forgotten  masterpiece,  "There's  no  Jest  like  a  True 
Jest."  Then  it  was  that  he  felt  "  immortal  longings 
in  his  blood."  He  would  take  to  the  road,  so  he  swore, 
and  hold  up  his  enemies  like  a  gentleman.  Once, 
indeed,  he  was  surprised  by  the  clergyman  of  the  parish 
in  act  to  escape  from  the  rectory  with  two  volumes  of 
sermons  and  a  silver  flagon.  The  divine  was  minded 
to  speak  seriously  to  him  concerning  the  dreadful  sin 
of  robbery,  and  having  strengthened  him  with  texts 
and  good  counsel,  to  send  him  forth  unpunished. 
*'  Thieving  and  covetousness,"  said  the  parson,  "  must 
inevitably  bring  you  to  the  gallows.  If  you  would  die 
in  your  bed,  repent  you  of  your  evildoing,  and  rob  no 
more."  The  exhortation  was  not  lost  upon  Pureney, 
who,  chastened  in  spirit,  straightly  prevailed  upon  his 
father  to  enter  him  a  pensioner  at  Corpus  Christi 
College  in  the  University  of  Cambridge,  that  at  the 
proper  time  he  might  take  orders. 

At  Cambridge  he  gathered  no  more  knowledge  than 
was  necessary  for  his  profession,  and  wasted  such  hours 
as  should  have  been  given  to  study  in  drinking,  dicing, 
and  even  less  reputable  pleasures.  Yet  repentance  was 
always  easy,  and  he  accepted  his  first  curacy,  at  New- 
market, with  a  brave  heart  and  a  good  hopefulness. 
Fortunate  was  the  choice  of  this  early  cure.  Had  he 
been  gently  guided  at  the  outset,  who  knows  but  he 
might  have  lived  out  his  life  in  respectable  obscurity  ? 
But  Newmarket  then,  as  now,  was  a  town  of  jollity 


144  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

and  dissipation,  and  Pureney  yielded  without  persua 
sion  to  the  pleasures  denied  his  cloth.  There  was  ever 
a  fire  to  extinguish  at  his  throat,  nor  could  he  veil  his 
wanton  eye  at  the  sight  of  a  pretty  wench.  Again 
and  again  the  lust  of  preaching  urged  him  to  repent, 
yet  he  slid  back  upon  his  past  gaiety,  until  Parson 
Pureney  became  a  byword.  Dismissed  from  New- 
market in  disgrace,  he  wandered  the  country  up  and 
down  in  search  of  a  pulpit,  but  so  infamous  became  the 
habit  of  his  life  that  only  in  prison  could  he  find  an 
audience  fit  and  responsive. 

And,  in  the  nick,  the  chaplaincy  of  Newgate  fell 
vacant.  Here  was  the  occasion  to  temper  dissipation 
with  piety,  to  indulge  the  twofold  ambition  of  his  life. 
What  mattered  it,  if  within  the  prison  walls  he  dipped 
his  nose  more  deeply  into  the  punch-bowl  than  became 
a  divine  ?  The  rascals  would  but  respect  him  the 
more  for  his  prowess,  and  knit  more  closely  the  bond 
of  sympathy.  Besides,  after  preaching  and  punch  he 
best  loved  a  penitent,  and  where  in  the  world  could  he 
find  so  rich  a  crop  of  erring  souls  ripe  for  repentance 
as  in  gaol  ?  Henceforth  he  might  threaten,  bluster, 
and  cajole.  If  amiability  proved  fruitless  he  would  put 
cruelty  to  the  test,  and  terrify  his  victims  by  a  spirited 
reference  to  Hell  and  to  that  Burning  Lake  they  were 
so  soon  to  traverse.  At  last,  thought  he,  I  shall  be 
sure  of  my  effect,  and  the  prospect  flattered  his  vanity. 
In  truth,  he  won  an  immediate  and  assured  success. 
Like  the  common  file  or  cracksman,  he  fell  into  the 
habit  of  the  place,  intriguing  with  all  the  cleverness  of  a 


THOMAS  PURENEY  145 

practised  diplomatist,  and  setting  one  party  against  the 
other  that  he  might  in  due  season  decide  the  trumpery 
dispute.  The  trusted  friend  of  many  a  distinguished 
prig  and  murderer,  he  so  intimately  mastered  the  slang 
and  etiquette  of  the  Jug,  that  he  was  appointed  arbiter 
of  all  those  nice  questions  of  honour  which  agitated 
the  more  reputable  among  the  cross-coves.  But  these 
were  the  diversions  of  a  strenuous  mind,  and  it  was  in 
the  pulpit  or  in  the  closet  that  the  Reverend  Thomas 
Pureney  revealed  his  true  talent. 

As  the  ruffian  had  a  sense  of  drama,  so  he  was 
determined  that  his  words  should  scald  and  bite  the 
penitent.  When  the  condemned  pew  was  full  of  a 
Sunday  his  happiness  was  complete.  Now  his  deep 
chest  would  hurl  salvo  on  salvo  of  platitudes  against 
the  sounding-board ;  now  his  voice,  lowered  to  a 
whisper,  would  coax  the  hopeless  prisoners  to  prepare 
their  souls.  In  a  paroxysm  of  feigned  anger  he  would 
crush  the  cushion  with  his  clenched  fist,  or  leaning 
over  the  pulpit  side  as  though  to  approach  the  nearer 
to  his  victims,  would  roll  a  cold  and  bitter  eye  upon 
them,  as  of  a  cat  watching  caged  birds.  One  famous 
gesture  was  irresistible,  and  he  never  employed  it  but 
some  poor  rufiian  fell  senseless  to  the  floor.  His 
stumpy  fingers  would  fix  a  noose  of  air  round  some 
imagined  neck,  and  so  devoutly  was  the  pantomime 
studied  that  you  almost  heard  the  creak  of  the  retreat- 
ing cart  as  the  phantom  culprit  was  turned  ofF.  But 
his  conduct  in  the  pulpit  was  due  to  no  ferocity  of 
temperament.      He   merely  exercised   his   legitimate 

K 


146  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

craft.  So  long  as  Newgate  supplied  him  with  an 
enforced  audience,  so  long  would  he  thunder  and 
bluster  at  the  wrongdoer  according  to  law  and  the 
dictates  of  his  conscience. 

Many,  in  truth,  were  his  triumphs,  but,  as  he 
would  mutter  in  his  garrulous  old  age,  never  was  he 
so  successful  as  in  the  last  exhortation  delivered  to 
Matthias  Brinsden.  Now,  Matthias  Brinsden  incon- 
tinently murdered  his  wife  because  she  harboured  too 
eager  a  love  of  the  brandy-shop.  A  model  husband, 
he  had  spared  no  pains  in  her  correction.  He  had 
flogged  her  without  mercy  and  without  result.  His 
one  design  was  to  make  his  wife  obey  him,  which, 
as  the  Scriptures  say,  all  wives  should  do.  But 
the  lust  of  gin  overcame  wifely  obedience,  and 
Brinsden,  hoping  for  the  best,  was  constrained  to  cut 
a  hole  in  her  skull.  The  next  day  she  was  as  impu- 
dent as  ever,  until  Matthias  rose  yet  more  fiercely  in 
his  wrath,  and  the  shrew  perished.  Then  was  Thomas 
Pureney's  opportunity,  and  the  Sunday  following  the 
miscreant's  condemnation  he  delivered  unto  him  and 
seventeen  other  malefactors  the  moving  discourse 
which  here  follows : 

"We  shall  take  our  text,"  grufFed  the  Ordinary, 
"  from  out  the  Psalms :  *  Bloodthirsty  and  deceitful 
men  shall  not  live  out  half  their  days.'  And  firstly, 
we  shall  expound  to  you  the  heinous  sin  of  murder, 
which  is  unlawftil  ( i )  according  to  the  Natural  Laws, 
(2)  according  to  the  Jewish  Law,  (3)  according  to  the 
Christian  Law,  proportionably  stronger.     By  Nature 


THOMAS  PURENEY  147 

'tis  unlawful  as  'tis  injuring  Society ;  as  'tis  robbing 
God  of  what  is  His  Right  and  Property ;  as  'tis 
depriving  the  Slain  of  the  Satisfaction  of  Eating, 
Drinking,  Talking,  and  the  Light  of  the  Sun,  which 
it  is  his  right  to  enjoy.  And  especially  'tis  unlawful, 
as  it  is  sending  a  Soul  naked  and  unprepared  to  appear 
before  a  wrathful  and  avenging  Deity  without  time  to 
make  his  Soul  composedly  or  to  listen  to  the  thoughtful 
ministrations  of  one  (like  ourselves)  soundly  versed  in 
Divinity.  By  the  Jewish  Law  'tis  forbidden,  for  is  it 
not  written  (Gen.  ix.  6):  'Whosoever  sheddeth  Man's 
Blood,  by  Man  his  Blood  shall  be  shed '  ?  And  if  an 
Eye  be  given  for  an  Eye,  a  Tooth  for  a  Tooth,  how 
shall  the  Murderer  escape  with  his  dishonoured  Life  ? 
'Tis  further  forbidden  by  the  Christian  Law  (propor- 
tionably  stronger).  But  on  this  head  we  would  speak 
no  word,  for  were  not  you  all,  O  miserable  Sinners, 
born  not  in  the  Darkness  of  Heathendom,  but  in  the 
burning  Light  of  Christian  England  ? 

"  Secondly,  we  will  consider  the  peculiar  wickedness 
of  Parricide,  and  especially  the  Murder  of  a  Wife. 
What  deed,  in  truth,  is  more  heinous  than  that  a  man 
should  slay  the  Parent  of  his  own  Children,  the  Wife 
he  had  once  loved  and  chose  out  of  all  the  world  to  be 
a  Companion  of  his  Days ;  the  Wife  who  long  had 
shared  his  good  Fortune  and  his  ill,  who  had  brought 
him  with  Pain  and  Anguish  several  Tokens  and 
Badges  of  Affection,  the  Olive  Branches  round  about 
his  Table  ?  To  embrew  the  Hands  in  such  blood  is 
double  Murder,  as  it  murders  not  only  the  Person 


148  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

slain,  but  kills  the  Happiness  of  the  orphaned  Children, 
depriving  them  of  Bread,  and  forcing  them  upon 
wicked  Ways  of  getting  a  Maintenance,  which  often 
terminate  in  Newgate  and  an  ignominious  death. 

"  Bloodthirsty  men,  we  have  said,  shall  not  live  out 
half  their  Days.  And  think  not  that  Repentance 
avails  the  Murderer.  *  Hell  and  Damnation  are  never 
full'  (Prov.  xxvii.  20),  and  the  meanest  Sinner  shall 
find  a  place  in  the  Lake  which  burns  unto  Eternity 
with  Fire  and  Brimstone.  Alas  !  your  Punishment 
shall  not  finish  with  the  Noose.  Your  '  end  is  to  be 
burned '  (Heb.  vi.  8),  to  be  burned,  for  the  Blood  that 
is  shed  cries  aloud  for  Vengeance."  At  these  words, 
as  Pureney  would  relate  with  a  smile  of  recollected 
triumph,  Matthias  Brinsden  screamed  aloud,  and  a 
shiver  ran  through  the  idle  audience  which  came  to 
Newgate  on  a  Black  Sunday,  as  to  a  bull-baiting. 
Xruly,  the  throng  of  thoughtless  spectators  hindered 
the  proper  solace  of  the  Ordinary's  ministrations,  and 
many  a  respectable  murderer  complained  of  the  in- 
truding mob.  But  the  Ordinary,  otherwise  minded, 
loved  nothing  so  well  as  a  packed  house,  and  though 
he  would  invite  the  criminal  to  his  private  closet,  and 
comfort  his  solitude  with  pious  ejaculations,  he  would 
neither  shield  him  from  curiosity,  nor  tranquillise  his 
path  to  the  unquenchable  fire. 

Not  only  did  he  exercise  in  the  pulpit  a  poignant 
and  visible  influence.  He  boasted  the  confidence  of 
many  heroes.  His  green  old  age  cherished  no  more 
famous  memory  than  the  friendship  of  Jonathan  Wild. 


THOMAS  PURENEY  149 

He  had  known  the  Great  Man  at  his  zenith  ;  he  had 
wrestled  with  him  in  the  hour  of  discomfiture ;  he 
had  preached  for  his  benefit  that  famous  sermon  on  the 
text :  "  Hide  Thy  Face  from  my  sins,  and  blot  out  all 
my  Iniquities";  he  had  witnessed  the  hero's  awful 
progress  from  Newgate  to  Tyburn  ;  he  had  seen  him 
shiver  at  the  nubbing-cheat ;  he  had  composed  for  him 
a  last  dying  speech,  which  did  not  shame  the  king  of 
thief-takers,  and  whose  sale  brought  a  comfortable 
profit  to  the  widow.  Jonathan,  on  his  side,  had  shown 
the  Ordinary  not  a  little  condescension.  It  had  been 
his  whim,  on  the  eve  of  his  marriage,  to  present  Mr. 
Pureney  with  a  pair  of  white  gloves,  which  were 
treasured  as  a  priceless  relic  for  many  a  year.  And 
when  he  paid  his  last,  forced  visit  to  Newgate,  he  gave 
the  Chaplain,  for  a  pledge  of  his  esteem,  that  famous 
silver  staff,  which  he  carried,  as  a  badge  of  authority 
from  the  Government,  the  better  to  keep  the  people  in 
awe,  and  favour  the  enterprises  of  his  rogues. 

Only  one  cloud  shadowed  this  old  and  equal  friendship. 
Jonathan  had  entertained  the  Ordinary  with  discourse 
so  familiar,  they  had  cracked  so  many  a  bottle  together, 
that  when  the  irrevocable  sentence  was  passed,  when 
he  who  had  never  shown  mercy,  expected  none,  the 
Great  Man  found  the  exhortations  of  the  illiterate 
Chaplain  insufficient  for  his  high  purpose.  "  As  soon 
as  I  came  into  the  condemned  Hole,"  thus  he  wrote, 
"  I  began  to  think  of  making  a  preparation  for  my 
soul ;  and  the  better  to  bring  my  stubborn  heart  to 
repentance,  I  desired  the  advice  of  a  man  of  learning. 


150  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

a  man  of  sound  judgment  in  divinity,  and  therefore 
application  being  made  to  the  Reverend  Mr.  Nicholson, 
he  very  Christian-like  gave  me  his  assistance."  Alas ! 
Poor  Pureney !  He  lacked  subtlety,  and  he  was 
instantly  baffled,  when  the  Great  Man  bade  him 
expound  the  text :  *'  Cursed  is  every  one  that  hangeth 
on  a  tree."  The  shiftiest  excuse  would  have  brought 
solace  to  a  breaking  heart  and  conviction  to  a  casuist 
brain.  Yet  for  once  the  Ordinary  was  at  a  loss, 
and  Wild,  finding  him  insufficient  for  his  purpose, 
turned  a  deaf  ear  to  his  ministrations.  Thus  he  was 
rudely  awakened  from  the  dream  of  unnumbered 
sleepless  nights.  His  large  heart  almost  broke  at  the 
neglect. 

But  if  his  more  private  counsels  were  scorned, 
he  still  had  the  joy  of  delivering  a  masterpiece  from 
the  pulpit,  of  using  "all  the  means  imaginable  to 
make  Wild  think  of  another  world,"  and  of  seeing 
him  as  neatly  turned  off  as  the  most  exacting 
Ordinary  could  desire.  And  what  inmate  of  New- 
gate ever  forgot  the  afternoon  of  that  glorious  day 
(May  the  24th,  1725)?  Mr.  Pureney  returned 
to  his  flock,  fortified  with  punch  and  good  tidings. 
He  pictured  the  scene  at  Tyburn  with  a  bibulous 
circumstance,  which  admirably  became  his  style,  re- 
joicing, as  he  has  rejoiced  ever  since,  that,  though 
he  lost  a  friend,  the  honest  rogue  was  saved  at  last 
from  the  machinations  of  the  thief-taker. 

So  he  basked  and  smoked  and  drank  his  ale,  retelling 
the  ancient  stories,  and  hiccuping  forth  the  ancient 


THOMAS  PURENEY                 151  \ 

\ 

sermons.     So,  in  the  fading  twilight  of  life,  he  smiled  1 

the  smile  of  contentment,  as  became  one  who  had 

empiied  more  quarts,  had  delivered  more  harrowing  I 

discourses,  and  had  lived  familiarly  with  more  scoundrels  1 

than  any  devil-dodger  of  his  generation.  r 


SHEPPARD    AND    CARTOUCHE 

I 

JACK    SHEPPARD 


JACK    SHEPPARD 

IT  was  midnight  when  Jack  Sheppard  reached  the 
leads,  wearied  by  his  magical  achievement,  and 
still  fearful  of  discovery.  The  "jolly  pair  of  hand- 
cuffs," provided  by  the  thoughtful  Governor,  lay  dis- 
carded in  his  distant  cell ;  the  chains  which  a  few  hours 
since  had  grappled  him  to  the  floor  encumbered  the 
now  useless  staple.  No  trace  of  the  ancient  slavery 
■disgraced  him  save  the  iron  anklets  which  clung  about 
his  legs  :  though  many  a  broken  wall  and  shattered 
lock  must  >serve  for  evidence  of  his  prowess  on  the 
morrow.  The  Stone-jug  was  all  be-chipped  and 
shattered.  From  the  castle  he  had  forced  his  way 
through  a  nine-foot  wall  into  the  Red  Room,  whose 
Iwlts,  bars,  and  hinges  he  had  ruined  to  gain  the  Chapel. 
The  road  thence  to  the  roof  and  to  freedom  was 
hindered  by  three  stubborn  iron  doors  ;  yet  naught 
stood  in  the  way  of  Sheppard's  genius,  and  he  was 
•sensible,  at  last,  of  the  night  air  chill  upon  his  cheek. 

But  liberty  was  not  yet :  there  was  still  a  fall  of  forty 
feet,  and  he  must  needs  repass  the  wreckage  of  his  own 
making  to  filch  the  blankets  from  his  cell.  In  terror 
lest  he  should  awaken  the  Master-Side  Debtors,  he 


156  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

hastened  back  to  the  roof,  lashed  the  coverlets  together, 
and,  as  the  city  clocks  clashed  twelve,  he  dropped 
noiselessly  upon  the  leads  of  a  turner's  house,  built 
against  the  prison's  outer  w^all.  Behind  him  Nev^^gate 
was  cut  out  a  black  mass  against  the  sky  ;  at  his  feet 
glimmered  the  garret  window  of  the  turner's  house, 
and  behind  the  winking  casement  he  could  see  the 
turner's  servant  going  to  bed.  Through  her  chamber 
lay  the  road  to  glory  and  Clare  Market,  and  breath- 
lessly did  Sheppard  watch  till  the  candle  should  be 
extinguished  and  the  maid  silenced  in  sleep.  In  his 
anxiety  he  must  tarry — tarry  ;  and  for  a  weary  hour  he 
kicked  his  heels  upon  the  leads,  ambition  still  too 
uncertain  for  quietude.  Yet  he  could  not  but  catch 
a  solace  from  his  splendid  craft.  Said  he  to  himself: 
"  Am  I  not  the  most  accomplished  slip-string  the 
world  has  known  ?  The  broken  wall  of  every  round 
house  in  town  attests  my  bravery.  Light-limbed  though 
I  be,  have  I  not  forced  the  impregnable  Castle  itself? 
And  my  enemies — are  they  not  to-day  writhing  in 
distress  ?  The  head  of  Blueskin,  that  pitiful  thief,, 
quivers  in  the  noose  ;  and  Jonathan  Wild  bleeds  at  the 
throat  from  the  dregs  of  a  coward's  courage.  And 
what  a  triumph  shall  be  mine  when  the  Keeper  finds 
the  stronghold  tenantless  !  " 

Now,  unnumbered  were  the  affronts  he  had  suffered 
from  the  Keeper's  impertinence,  and  he  chuckled 
aloud  at  his  own  witty  rejoinder.  Only  two  days 
since  the  Gaoler  had  caught  him  tampering  with 
his  irons.     "  Young  man,"  he  had  said,  "  I  see  what 


JACK  SHEPPARD  157 

you  have  been  doing,  but  the  affair  betwixt  us  stands 
thus  :  It  is  your  business  to  make  your  escape,  and 
mine  to  take  care  you  shall  not."  Jack  had  answered 
coolly  enough  :  "  Then  let's  both  mind  our  own 
business."  And  it  was  to  some  purpose  that  he  had 
minded  his.  The  letter  to  his  baffled  guardian,  already 
sketched  in  his  mind,  tickled  him  afresh,  when  sud- 
denly he  leaps  to  his  feet  and  begins  to  force  the  garret 
window. 

The  turner's  maid  was  a  heavy  sleeper,  and  Sheppard 
crept  from  her  garret  to  the  twisted  stair  in  peace. 
Once,  on  a  lower  floor,  his  heart  beat  faster  at  the 
trumpetings  of  the  turner's  nose,  but  he  knew  no  check 
until  he  reached  the  street  door.  The  bolt  was  with- 
drawn in  an  instant,  but  the  lock  was  turned,  and  the 
key  nowhere  to  be  found.  However,  though  the  risk 
of  disturbance  was  greater  than  in  Newgate,  the  task 
was  light  enough  :  and  with  an  iron  link  from  his 
fetter,  and  a  rusty  nail  which  had  served  him  bravely, 
the  box  was  wrenched  off  in  a  trice,  and  Sheppard  stood 
unattended  in  the  Old  Bailey.  At  first  he  was  minded 
to  make  for  his  ancient  haunts,  or  to  conceal  himself 
within  the  Liberty  of  Westminster  ;  but  the  fetter-locks 
were  still  upon  his  legs,  and  he  knew  that  detection 
would  be  easy  as  long  as  he  was  thus  embarrassed. 
Wherefore,  weary  and  an-hungered,  he  turned  his  steps 
northward,  and  never  rested  until  he  had  gained  Finchley 
Common. 

At  break  of  day,  when  the  world  re-awoke  from 
the  fear  of  thieves,  he  feigned  a  limp  at  a  cottage 


158  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

door,  and  borrowed  a  hammer  to  straighten  a  pinching 
shoe.  Five  minutes  behind  a  hedge,  and  his  anklets 
had  dropped  from  him  ;  and,  thus  a  free  man,  he  took 
to  the  high  road.  After  all  he  was  persuaded  to  desert 
London  and  to  escape  a  while  from  the  sturdy  embrace 
of  Edgworth  Bess.  Moreover,  if  Bess  herself  were  in 
the  lock-up,  he  still  feared  the  interested  affection  of 
Mistress  Maggot,  that  other  doxy,  whose  avarice 
would  surely  drive  him  upon  a  dangerous  enterprise  ; 
so  he  struck  across  country,  and  kept  starvation  from 
him  by  petty  theft.  Up  and  down  England  he  wan- 
dered in  solitary  insolence.  Once,  saith  rumour,  his 
lithe  apparition  startled  the  peace  of  Nottingham; 
once,  he  was  well-nigh  caught  begging  wort  at  a  brew- 
house  in  Thames  Street.  But  he  might  as  well  have 
lingered  in  Newgate  as  waste  his  opportunity  so  far 
from  the  delights  of  Town  ;  the  old  lust  of  life  still  im- 
pelled him,  and  a  week  after  the  hue-and-cry  was 
raised  he  crept  at  dead  of  night  down  Drury  Lane. 
Here  he  found  harbourage  with  a  friendly  fence.  Wild's 
mortal  enemy,  who  promised  him  a  safe  conduct  across 
the  seas.  But  the  desire  of  work  proved  too  strong  for 
prudence  ;  and  in  a  fortnight  he  had  planned  an  attack 
on  the  pawnshop  of  one  Rawling,  at  the  Four  Balls  in 
Drury  Lane. 

Now,  Sheppard,  whom  no  house  ever  built  with 
hands  was  strong  enough  to  hold,  was  better  skilled  at 
breaking  out  than  at  breaking  in,  and  it  is  remarkable 
that  his  last  feat  in  the  cracking  of  cribs  was  also  his 
greatest.     Its  very  conception  was  a  masterpiece  of 


JACK  SHEPPARD  159 

effrontery.  Drury  Lane  was  the  thief-catcher's  chosen 
territory  ;  yet  it  was  the  Four  Balls  that  Jack  designed 
for  attack,  and  watches,  tie-wigs,  snuff-boxes  were 
among  his  booty.  Whatever  he  could  not  crowd  upon 
his  person  he  presented  to  a  brace  of  women.  Tricked 
out  in  his  stolen  finery,  he  drank  and  swaggered  in 
Clare  Market.  He  was  habited  in  a  superb  suit  of 
black ;  a  diamond  fawney  flashed  upon  his  fam  ;  his 
light  tie-periwig  was  worth  no  less  than  seven  pounds  ; 
pistols,  tortoise-shell  snuff-boxes,  and  golden  guineas 
jostled  one  another  in  his  pockets. 

Thus,  in  brazen  magnificence,  he  marched  down 
Drury  Lane  on  a  certain  Saturday  night  in  November 
1724.  Towards  midnight  he  visited  Thomas  Nicks, 
the  butcher,  and  having  bargained  for  three  ribs  of  beef, 
carried  Nicks  with  him  to  a  chandler's  hard  by,  that  they 
might  ratify  the  bargain  with  a  dram.  Unhappily,  a  boy 
from  the  "  Rose  and  Crown  "  sounded  the  alarm  ;  for 
coming  into  the  chandler's  for  the  empty  ale-pots,  he 
instantly  recognised  the  incomparable  gaol-thief,  and 
lost  no  time  in  acquainting  his  master.  Now,  Mr.  Brad- 
ford, of  the  **  Rose  and  Crown,"  was  a  head-borough, 
who,  with  the  2^al  of  a  triumphant  Dogberry,  summoned 
the  watch,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  Jack  Sheppard 
was  screaming  blasphemies  in  a  liackney-cab  on  his^ 
way  home  to  Newgate. 

The  Stone-jug  received  him  with  deference  and 
admiration.  Three  hundred  pounds  weight  of  irons 
were  put  upon  him  for  an  adornment,  and  the  Governor 
professed  so  keen  a  solicitude  for  his  welfare  that  he 


i6o  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

never  left  him  unattended.  There  was  scarce  a  beautiful 
woman  in  London  who  did  not  solace  him  with  her 
condescension,  and  enrich  him  with  her  gifts.  Not 
only  did  the  President  of  the  Royal  Academy  deign  to 
paint  his  portrait,  but  (a  far  greater  honour)  Hogarth 
made  him  immortal.  Even  the  King  displayed  a  proper 
interest,  demanding  a  full  and  precise  account  of  his 
escapes.  The  hero  himself  was  drunk  with  flattery  ; 
he  bubbled  with  ribaldry  j  he  touched  off  the  most 
valiant  of  his  contemporaries  in  a  ludicrous  phrase. 
But  his  chief  delight  was  to  illustrate  his  prowess  to  his 
distinguished  visitors,  and  nothing  pleased  him  better 
than  to  slip  in  and  out  of  his  chains. 

Confronted  with  his  judge,  he  forthwith  proposed 
to  rid  himself  of  his  handcuffs,  and  he  preserved 
until  the  fatal  tree  an  illimitable  pride  in  his 
artistry.  Nor  would  he  believe  in  the  possibility  of 
death.  To  the  very  last  he  was  confirmed  in  the 
hope  of  pardon  ;  but,  pardon  failing  him,  his  single 
consolation  was  that  his  procession  from  West- 
minster to  Newgate  was  the  largest  that  London 
had  ever  known,  and  that  in  the  crowd  a  constable 
broke  his  leg.  Even  in  the  Condemned  Hole  he  was 
unreconciled.  If  he  had  broken  the  Castle,  why  should 
he  not  also  evade  the  gallows  ?  Wherefore  he  resolved 
to  carry  a  knife  to  Tyburn  that  he  might  cut  the  rope, 
and  so,  losing  himself  in  the  crowd,  ensure  escape. 
But  the  knife  was  discovered  by  his  warder's  vigilance, 
and  taken  from  him  after  a  desperate  struggle.  At  the 
scaffold  he  behaved  with  admirable  gravity  :  confessing 


JACK  SHEPPARD  i6i 

the  wickeder  of  his  robberies,  and  asking  pardon  for 
his  enormous  crimes.  '*  Of  two  virtues,"  he  boasted 
at  the  self-same  moment  that  the  cart  left  him  dancing 
without  the  music,  *'  I  have  ever  cherished  an  honest 
pride  :  never  have  I  stooped  to  friendship  with  Jonathan 
Wild,  or  with  any  of  his  detestable  thief-takers  j  and, 
though  an  undutiful  son,  I  never  damned  my  mother's 
eyes." 

Thus  died  Jack  Sheppard  j  intrepid  burglar  and  in- 
comparable artist,  who,  in  his  own  separate  ambition 
of  prison-breaking,  remains,  and  will  ever  remain,  un- 
rivalled. His  most  brilliant  efforts  were  the  result 
neither  of  strength  nor  of  cunning  j  for  so  slight  was 
he  of  build,  so  deficient  in  muscle,  that  both  Edg worth 
Bess  and  Mistress  Maggot  were  wont  to  bang  him  to 
their  own  mind  and  purpose.  And  an  escape  so  mag- 
nificently planned,  so  bravely  executed  as  was  his  from 
the  Strong  Room,  is  far  greater  than  a  mere  effect  of 
cunning.  Those  mysterious  gifts  which  enable  man- 
kind to  batter  the  stone  walls  of  a  prison,  or  to  bend 
the  iron  bars  of  a  cage,  were  pre-eminently  his.  It  is 
also  certain  that  he  could  not  have  employed  his  gifts 
in  a  more  reputable  profession 


II 


LOUIS-DOMINIQUE    CARTOUCHE 


LOUIS-DOMINIQUE  CARTOUCHE 

OF  all  the  heroes  who  have  waged  a  private  and 
undeclared  war  upon  their  neighbours,  Louis- 
Dominique  Cartouche  was  the  most  generously  en- 
dowed. It  was  but  his  resolute  contempt  for  politics, 
his  unswerving  love  of  plunder  for  its  own  sake,  that 
prevented  him  from  seizing  a  throne  or  questing  after 
the  empire  of  the  world.  The  modesty  of  his  ambition 
sets  him  below  Caesar,  or  Napoleon,  but  he  yields  to 
neither  in  the  genius  of  success  :  whatever  he  would 
attain  was  his  on  the  instant,  nor  did  failure  interrupt 
his  career,  until  treachery,  of  which  he  went  in  per- 
petual terror,  involved  himself  and  his  comrades  in 
ruin.  His  talent  of  generalship  was  unrivalled.  None 
of  the  gang  was  permitted  the  liberty  of  a  free-lance. 
By  Cartouche  was  the  order  given,  and  so  long  as  the 
chief  was  in  repose,  Paris  might  enjoy  her  sleep.  But 
when  it  pleased  him  to  join  battle  a  whistle  was 
enough. 

Now,  it  was  revealed  to  his  intelligence  that  the 
professional  thief,  who  devoted  all  his  days  and  such  of 
his  nights  as  were  spared  from  depredation  to  wine  and 
women,  was  more  readily  detected  than  the  valet~de^ 


i66  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

chambre^  who  did  but  crack  a  crib  or  cry  "  Stand  and 
deliver  !  "  on  a  proper  occasion.  Wherefore,  he  bade 
his  soldiers  take  service  in  the  great  houses  of  Paris, 
that,  secure  of  suspicion,  they  might  still  be  ready  to 
obey  the  call  of  duty.  Thus,  also,  they  formed  a  re- 
connoitring force,  w^hose  vigilance  no  prize  might 
elude ;  and  nowhere  did  Cartouche  display  his  genius 
to  finer  purpose  than  in  this  prudent  disposition  of  his 
army.  It  remained  only  to  efface  himself,  and  therein 
he  succeeded  admirably  by  never  sleeping  two  follow- 
ing nights  in  the  same  house:  so  that,  when  Car- 
touche was  the  terror  of  Paris,  when  even  the  King 
trembled  in  his  bed,  none  knew  his  stature  nor  could 
recognise  his  features.  In  this  shifting  and  impersonal 
vizard,  he  broke  houses,  picked  pockets,  robbed  on  the 
pad.  One  night  he  would  terrify  the  Faubourg  St. 
Germain  ;  another  he  would  plunder  the  humbler 
suburb  of  St.  Antoine  ;  but  on  each  excursion  he  was 
companioned  by  experts,  and  the  map  of  Paris  was^ 
rigidly  apportioned  among  his  followers.  To  each 
district  a  captain  was  appointed,  whose  business  it  was 
to  apprehend  the  customs  of  the  quarter,  and  thus  to 
indicate  the  proper  season  of  attack. 

Ever  triumphant,  with  yellow-boys  ever  jingling  in 
his  pocket,  Cartouche  lived  a  life  of  luxurious  merri- 
ment. A  favourite  haunt  was  a  cabaret  in  the  Rue 
Dauphine,  chosen  for  the  sanest  of  reasons,  as  his 
Captain  Ferrand  declared,  that  the  landlady  was  a 
femme  ff esprit.  Here  he  would  sit  with  his  friends  and 
his  women,  and  thereafter  drive  his  chariot  across  the 


LOUIS-DOMINIQUE  CARTOUCHE     167 

Pont  Neuf  to  the  sunnier  gaiety  of  the  Palais-Royal. 
A  finished  dandy,  he  wore  by  preference  a  grey-white 
coat  with  silver  buttons  ;  his  breeches  and  stockings 
were  on  a  famous  occasion  of  black  silk ;  while  a  sword, 
scabbarded  in  satin,  hung  at  his  hip. 

But  if  Cartouche,  like  many  another  great  man, 
had  the  faculty  of  enjoyment,  if  he  loved  wine  and 
wit,  and  mistresses  handsomely  attired  in  damask, 
he  did  not  therefore  neglect  his  art.  When  once 
the  gang  was  perfectly  ordered,  murder  followed 
robbery  with  so  instant  a  frequency  that  Paris  was 
panic-stricken.  A  cry  of  ''Cartouche"  straightway 
ensured  an  empty  street.  The  King  took  counsel 
with  his  ministers :  munificent  rewards  were  offered, 
without  effect.  The  thief  was  still  at  work  in  all 
security,  and  it  was  a  pretty  irony  which  urged  him 
to  strip  and  kill  on  the  highway  one  of  the  King's 
own  pages.  Also,  he  did  his  work  with  so  astonish- 
ing a  silence,  with  so  reasoned  a  certainty,  that  it 
seemed  impossible  to  take  him  or  his  minions  red- 
handed. 

Before  all,  he  discouraged  the  use  of  firearms.  "  A 
pistol,"  his  philosophy  urged,  "  is  an  excellent  weapon 
in  an  emergency,  but  reserve  it  for  emergencies.  At 
close  quarters  it  is  none  too  sure  ;  and  why  give  the 
alarm  against  yourself  ? "  Therefore  he  armed  his 
band  with  loaded  staves,  which  sent  their  enemies  into 
a  noiseless  and  fatal  sleep.  Thus  was  he  wont  to 
laugh  at  the  police,  deeming  capture  a  plain  impossibi- 
lity.    The  traitor,  in  sooth,  was  his  single,  irremedi- 


168  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

able  fear,  and  if  ever  suspicion  was  aroused  against  a 
member  of  the  gang,  that  member  was  put  to  death 
with  the  shortest  shrift. 

Now,  it  happened  in  the  last  year  of  Cartouche's 
supremacy  that  a  lily-livered  comrade  fell  in  love  with 
a  pretty  dressmaker.  The  indiscretion  ^yas  the  less 
pardonable  since  the  dressmaker  had  a  horror  of  theft, 
and  impudently  tried  to  turn  her  lover  from  his  trade. 
Cartouche,  discovering  the  backslider,  resolved  upon 
a  public  exhibition.  Before  the  assembled  band  he 
charged  the  miscreant  with  treason,  and,  cutting  his 
throat,  disfigured  his  face  beyond  recognition.  There- 
after he  pinned  to  the  corse  the  following  inscription, 
that  others  might  be  warned  by  so  monstrous  an 
example :  "  Ci  git  Jean  Rebati,  qui  a  eu  le  traite- 
ment  qu'il  meritait :  ceux  qui  en  feront  autant  que 
lui  peuvent  attendre  le  meme  sort."  Yet  this  was 
the  murder  that  led  to  the  hero's  own  capture  and 
death. 

Du  Chatelet,  another  craven,  had  already  aroused  the 
suspicions  of  his  landlady  :  who,  finding  him  something 
troubled  the  day  after  the  traitor's  death,  and  detecting 
a  spot  of  blood  on  his  neckerchief,  questioned  him 
closely.  The  coward  fumbling  at  an  answer,  she  was 
presently  convinced  of  his  guilt,  and  forthwith  de- 
nounced him  for  a  member  of  the  gang  to  M.  Pacome, 
an  officer  of  the  Guard.  Straightly  did  M.  Pacome 
summon  Du  Chatelet,  and,  assuming  his  guilt  for 
certitude,  bade  him  surrender  his  captain.  "My 
friend,"  said  he,  "I  know   you   for   an  associate  of 


LOUIS-DOMINIQUE  CARTOUCHE     169 

Cartouche.  Your  hands  are  soiled  with  murder  and 
rapine.  Confess  the  hiding-place  of  Cartouche,  or  in 
twenty-four  hours  you  are  broken  on  the  wheel." 
Vainly  did  Du  Chatelet  protest  his  ignorance.  M. 
Pacome  was  resolute,  and  before  the  interview  was 
over  the  robber  confessed  that  Cartouche  had  given 
him  rendezvous  at  nine  next  day. 

In  the  grey  morning  thirty  soldiers  crept  forth, "  en 
habits  de  bourgeois  et  de  chasseur,"  for  the  house 
where  Cartouche  had  lain.  It  was  an  inn,  kept  by 
one  Savard,  near  la  Haulte  Borne  de  la  Courtille  ;  and 
the  soldiers,  though  they  lacked  not  numbers,  ap- 
proached the  chieftain's  lair  shaking  with  terror.  In 
front  marched  Du  Chatelet ;  the  rest  followed  in 
Indian  file,  ten  paces  apart.  When  the  traitor  reached 
the  house,  Savard  recognised  him  for  a  friend,  and 
entertained  him  with  familiar  speech.  *'  Is  there 
anybody  upstairs  ?  "  demanded  Du  Chatelet.  "  No," 
replied  Savard.  *'  Are  the  four  women  upstairs  ?  " 
asked  Du  Chatelet  again.  "  Yes,  they  are,"  came  the 
answer :  for  Savard  knew  the  password  of  the  day. 
Instantly  the  soldiers  filled  the  tavern,  and,  mounting 
the  staircase,  discovered  Cartouche  with  his  three 
lieutenants,  Balagny,  Limousin,  and  Blanchard.  One 
of  the  four  still  lay  abed  ;  but  Carfouche,  with  all  the 
dandy's  respect  for  his  clothes,  was  mending  his 
breeches.  The  others  hugged  a  flagon  of  wine  over 
the  fire. 

So  fell  the  scourge  of  Paris  into  the  grip  of  justice. 
But  once  under  lock  and  key,  he  displayed  all  the 


170  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

qualities  which  made  him  supreme.  His  gaiety  broke 
forth  into  a  light-hearted  contempt  of  his  gaolers,  and 
the  Lieutenant  Criminel,  who  would  interrogate  him, 
was  covered  with  ridicule.  Not  for  an  instant  did  he 
bow  to  fate  :  all  shackled  as  he  was,  his  legs  engarlanded 
in  heavy  chains — which  he  called  his  garters — he 
tempered  his  merriment  with  the  meditation  of  escape. 
From  the  first  he  denied  all  knowledge  of  Cartouche, 
insisting  that  his  name  was  Charles  Bourguignon,  and 
demanding  burgundy,  that  he  might  drink  to  his 
country  and  thus  prove  him  a  true  son  of  the  soil. 
Not  even  the  presence  of  his  mother  and  brother 
abashed  him.  He  laughed  them  away  as  impostors, 
hired  by  a  false  justice  to  accuse  and  to  betray  the 
innocent.  No  word  of  confession  crossed  his  lips,  and 
he  would  still  entertain  the  officers  of  the  law  with 
joke  and  epigram. 

Thus  he  won  over  a  handful  of  the  Guard,  and,, 
begging  for  solitude,  he  straightway  set  about  escape 
with  a  courage  and  an  address  which  Jack  Sheppard 
might  have  envied.  His  delicate  ear  discovered  that 
a  cellar  lay  beneath  his  cell ;  and  with  the  old  nail 
which  lies  on  the  floor  of  every  prison  he  made 
his  way  downwards  into  a  boxmaker's  shop.  But 
a  barking  dog  spoiled  the  enterprise:  the  boxmaker 
and  his  daughter  were  immediately  abroad,  and  once 
more  Cartouche  was  lodged  in  prison,  weighted  with 
still  heavier  garters. 

Then  came  a  period  of  splendid  notoriety :  he 
held  his  court,  he  gave  an  easy  rein  to  his  wit,  he 


LOUIS-DOMINIQUE  CARTOUCHE     171 

received  duchesses  and  princes  with  an  air  of  amiable 
patronage.  Few  there  were  of  his  visitants  who 
left  him  without  a  present  of  gold,  and  thus  the  uni- 
versal robber  was  further  rewarded  by  his  victims. 
His  portrait  hung  in  every  house,  and  his  thin,  hard 
face,  his  dry,  small  features  were  at  last  familiar  to  the 
whole  of  France.  M.  Grandval  made  him  the  hero  of 
an  epic — "Le  Vice  Puni."  Even  the  theatre  was 
dominated  by  his  presence ;  and  while  Arlequin^ 
Cartouche  was  greeted  with  thunders  of  applause  at  the 
Italiens,  the  more  serious  Francis  set  Cartouche  upon 
the  stage  in  three  acts,  and  lavished  upon  its  theme  the 
resources  of  a  then  intelligent  art.  M.  Le  Grand, 
author  of  the  piece,  deigned  to  call  upon  the  king  of 
thieves,  spoke  some  words  of  argot  with  him,  and 
by  way  of  conscience  money  gave  him  a  hundred 
crowns. 

But  Cartouche  set  little  store  by  such  patronage. 
He  pocketed  the  crowns,  and  then  put  an  end  to  the 
comedy  by  threatening  that  if  it  were  played  again  the 
companions  of  Cartouche  would  punish  all  such  mis- 
creants as  dared  to  make  him  a  laughing-stock.  For 
Cartouche  would  endure  ridicule  at  no  man's  hand. 
At  the  very  instant  of  his  arrest,  all  barefooted  as 
he  was,  he  kicked  a  constable  who  presumed  to  smile  at 
his  discomfiture.  His  last  days  were  spent  in  resolute 
abandonment.  True,  he  once  attempted  to  beat  out 
his  brains  with  the  fetters  that  bound  him  ;  true  also, 
he  took  a  poison  that  had  been  secretly  conveyed 
within  the  prison.      But   both  attempts  failed,  and, 


172  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

more  scrupulously  watched,  he  had  no  other  course 
than  jollity.  Lawyers  and  priests  he  visited  with  a 
like  and  bitter  scorn,  and  when,  on  November  27, 
1 72 1,  he  was  led  to  the  scaffold,  not  a  word  of 
confession  or  contrition  had  been  dragged  from  him. 

To  the  last  moment  he  cherished  the  hope  of  rescue, 
and  eagerly  he  scanned  the  crowd  for  the  faces  of  his 
comrades.  But  the  gang,  trusting  to  its  leader's 
nobility,  had  broken  its  oath.  With  contemptuous 
dignity  Cartouche  determined  upon  revenge  :  proudly 
he  turned  to  the  priest,  begging  a  respite  and  the 
opportunity  of  speech.  Forgotten  by  his  friends,  he 
resolved  to  spare  no  single  soul  :  he  betrayed  even  his 
mistresses  to  justice.  Of  his  gang,  forty  were  in  the 
service  of  Mile,  de  Montpensier,  who  was  already  in 
Spain  ;  while  two  obeyed  the  Duchesse  de  Ventadour 
as  valets-de-pied.  His  confession,  in  brief,  was  so  dan- 
gerous a  document,  it  betrayed  the  friends  and  servants 
of  so  many  great  houses,  that  the  officers  of  the  Law 
found  safety  for  their  patrons  in  its  destruction,  and 
not  a  line  of  the  hero's  testimony  remains.  The  trial 
of  his  comrades  dragged  on  for  many  a  year,  and  after 
Cartouche  had  been  cruelly  broken  on  the  wheel,  not 
a  few  of  the  gang,  of  which  he  had  been  at  once  the 
terror  and  the  inspiration,  suffered  a  like  fate.  Such 
the  career  and  such  the  fitting  end  of  the  most  distin- 
guished marauder  the  world  has  known.  Thackeray, 
with  no  better  guide  than  a  chap-book,  was  minded  to 
belittle  him,  now  habiting  him  like  a  scullion,  now 
sending  him  forth  on  some  petty  errand  of  cly-faking. 


LOUIS-DOMINIQUE  CARTOUCHE     173 

But  for  all  Thackeray's  contempt  his  fame  is  still  un- 
dimmed,  and  he  has  left  the  reputation  of  one  who, 
as  thief  unrivalled,  had  scarce  his  equal  as  wit  and 
dandy  even  in  the  days  when  Louis  the  Magnificent 
was  still  a  memory  and  an  example. 


Ill 
A  PARALLEL 

(SHEPPARD  AND  CARTOUCHE) 


A    PARALLEL 

(SHEPPARD  AND   CARTOUCHE) 

IF  the  seventeenth  century  was  the  golden  age  of  the 
hightobyman,  it  was  at  the  advent  of  the  eighteenth 
that  the  burglar  and  street-robber  plied  their  trade  with 
the  most  distinguished  success,  and  it  was  the  good  for- 
tune of  both  Cartouche  and  Sheppard  to  be  born  in  the 
nick  of  time.  Rivals  in  talent,  they  were  also  near 
contemporaries,  and  the  Scourge  of  Paris  may  well  have 
been  famous  in  the  purlieus  of  Clare  Market  before 
Jack  the  Slip-String  paid  the  last  penalty  of  his  crimes. 
As  each  of  these  great  men  harboured  a  similar  ambi- 
tion, so  their  careers  are  closely  parallel.  Born  in  a 
humble  rank  of  life,  Jack,  like  Cartouche,  was  the  archi- 
tect of  his  own  fortune;  Jack,  like  Cartouche,  lived  to 
be  flattered  by  noble  dames  and  to  claim  the  solicitude  of 
his  Sovereign  ;  and  each  owed  his  pre-eminence  rather 
to  natural  genius  than  to  a  sympathetic  training. 

But,  for  all  the  Briton's  artistry,  the  Frenchman 
was  in  all  points  save  one  the  superior.  Sheppard's 
brain  carried  him  not  beyond  the  wants  of  to-day  and 
the  extortions  of  Poll  Maggot.     Who  knows  but  he 

M 


178  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

might  have  been  a  respectable  citizen,  with  never  a 
chance  for  the  display  of  his  peculiar  talent,  had  not 
hunger  and  his  mistress's  greed  driven  him  upon  the 
pad  ?  History  records  no  brilliant  robbery  of  his  own 
planning,  and  so  circumscribed  was  his  imagination 
that  he  must  needs  pick  out  his  own  friends  and  bene- 
factors for  depredation.  His  paltry  sense  of  discipline 
permitted  him  to  be  betrayed  even  by  his  brother  and 
pupil,  and  there  was  no  cracksman  of  his  time  over 
whose  head  he  held  the  rod  of  terror.  Even  his  hatred 
of  Jonathan  Wild  was  the  result  not  of  policy  but  of 
prejudice.  Cartouche,  on  the  other  hand,  was  always 
perfect  when  at  work.  The  master  of  himself,  he 
was  also  the  master  of  his  fellows.  There  was  no 
detail  of  civil  war  that  he  had  not  made  his  own,  and 
he  still  remains,  after  nearly  two  centuries,  the  greatest 
captain  the  world  has  seen.  Never  did  he  permit  an 
enterprise  to  fail  by  accident  j  never  was  he  impelled 
by  hunger  or  improvidence  to  fight  a  battle  unpre- 
pared. His  means  were  always  neatly  fitted  to  their 
end,  as  is  proved  by  the  H:ruth  that,  throughout  his 
career,  he  was  arrested  but  once,  and  then  not  by  his 
own  inadvertence  but  by  the  treachery  of  others. 

Yet  from  the  moment  of  arrest  Jack  Sheppard  asserted 
his  magnificent  superiority.  If  Cartouche  was  a  sorry 
bungler  at  prison-breaking,  Sheppard  was  unmatched  in 
this  dangerous  art.  The  sport  of  the  one  was  to  break 
in,  of  the  other  to  break  out.  True,  the  Briton 
proved  his  inferiority  by  too  frequently  placing  himself 
under  lock  and  key  j  but  you  will  forgive  his  every 


A  PARALLEL  179 

weakness  for  the  unexampled  skill  wherewith  he 
extricated  himself  from  the  stubbornest  dungeon. 
Cartouche  would  scarce  have  given  Sheppard  a  menial's 
office  in  his  gang.  How  cordially  Sheppard  would 
have  despised  Cartouche's  solitary  experiment  in  escape  ! 
To  be  foiled  by  a  dog  and  a  boxmaker's  daughter ! 
Would  not  that  have  seemed  contemptible  to  the 
master  breaker  of  those  unnumbered  doors  and  walls 
which  separate  the  Castle  from  the  freedom  of  New- 
gate roof? 

Such,  then,  is  the  contrast  between  the  heroes. 
Sheppard  claims  our  admiration  for  one  masterpiece. 
Cartouche  has  a  sheaf  of  works,  which  shall  carry  him 
triumphantly  to  the  remotest  future.  And  when  you 
forget  a  while  professional  rivalry,  and  consider  the 
delicacies  of  leisure,  you  will  find  the  Frenchman's 
greatness  still  indisputable.  At  all  points  he  was  the 
prettier  gentleman.  Sheppard,  to  be  sure,  had  a  sense 
of  finery,  but  he  was  so  unused  to  grandeur,  that  vul- 
garity always  spoiled  his  effects.  When  he  hied  him 
from  the  pawnshop,  laden  with  booty,  he  must  e'en 
cram  what  he  could  not  wear  into  his  pockets ;  and 
doubtless  his  vulgar  lack  of  reticence  made  detection 
easier.  Cartouche,  on  the  other  hand,  had  an  unfil- 
ing sense  of  proportion,  and  was  never  more  dressed 
than  became  the  perfect  dandy.  He  was  elegant,  he 
was  polished,  he  was  joyous.  He  drank  wine,  while 
the  other  soaked  himself  in  beer;  he  despised  what- 
ever was  common,  while  his  rival  knew  but  the  coarser 
flavours  of  life. 


i8o  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

The  one  was  distinguished  by  a  boisterous  humour, 
a  swaggering  pride  in  his  own  prowess  ;  the  wit 
of  the  other  might  be  edged  like  a  knife,  nor 
would  he  ever  appeal  for  a  spectacle  to  the  curiosity 
of  the  mob.  Both  were  men  of  many  mistresses, 
but  again  in  his  conduct  with  women  Cartouche 
showed  an  honester  talent.  Sheppard  was  at  once 
the  prey  and  the  whipping-block  of  his  two  infamous 
doxies,  who  agreed  in  deformity  of  feature  as  in 
contempt  for  their  lover.  Cartouche,  on  the  other 
hand,  chose  his  cabaret  for  the  wit  of  its  patronnCy 
and  was  always  happy  in  the  elegance  and  accom- 
plishment of  his  companions.  One  point  of  like- 
ness remains.  The  two  heroes  resembled  each  other 
not  only  in  their  profession,  but  in  their  person. 
Though  their  trade  demanded  physical  strength,  each 
was  small  and  slender  of  build.  "A  little  slight- 
limbed  lad,"  says  the  historian  of  Sheppard.  "A  thin, 
spare  frame,"  sings  the  poet  of  Cartouche.  Here, 
then,  neither  had  the  advantage,  and  if  in  the  shades 
Cartouche  despises  the  clumsiness  and  vulgarity  of  his 
rival,  Sheppard  may  still  remember  the  glory  of  New- 
gate, and  twit  the  Frenchman  with  the  barking  of  the 
boxmaker*s  dog.  But  genius  is  the  talent  of  the  dead, 
and  the  wise,  who  are  not  partisans,  will  not  deny  to 
the  one  or  to  the  other  the  possession  of  the  rarer  gift. 


VAUX 


VAUX 

TO  Haggart,  who  babbled  on  the  Castle  Rock  of 
WuUie  Wallace  and  was  only  nineteen  when  he 
danced  without  the  music  ;  to  Simms,  alias  Gentleman 
Harry,  who  showed  at  Tyburn  how  a  hero  could  die  ; 
to  George  Barrington,  the  incomparably  witty  and 
adroit — to  these  a  full  meed  of  honour  has  been  paid. 
Even  the  coarse  and  dastardly  Freney  has  achieved, 
with  Thackeray's  aid  (and  Lever's)  something  of  a 
reputation.  But  James  Hardy  Vaux,  despite  his 
eloquent  bid  for  fame,  has  not  found  his  rhapsodist. 
Yet  a  more  consistent  ruffian  never  pleaded  for  mercy. 
From  his  early  youth  until  in  1 8 19  he  sent  forth  his 
Memoirs  to  the  world,  he  lived  industriously  upon  the 
cross.  There  was  no  racket  but  he  worked  it  with 
energy  and  address.  Though  he  practised  the  more 
glorious  crafts  of  pickpocket  and  shoplifter,  he  did  not 
despise  the  begging-letter,  and  he  suffered  his  last 
punishment  for  receiving  what  another's  courage  had 
conveyed.  His  enterprise  was  not  seldom  rewarded 
with  success,  and  for  a  decade  of  years  he  continued  to 
preserve  an  appearance  of  gentility  ;  but  it  is  plain, 
even  from  his  own  narrative,  that  he  was  scarce  an 


i84  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

artist,  and  we  shall  best  understand  him  if  we  recognise 
that  he  was  a  Philistine  among  thieves.  He  lived 
in  an  age  of  pocket-picking,  and  skill  in  this 
branch  is  the  true  test  of  his  time.  A  contemporary 
of  Barrington,  he  had  before  him  the  most  brilliant 
of  examples,  which  might  properly  have  enforced  the 
worth  of  a  simple  method.  But,  though  he  con- 
stantly brags  of  his  success  at  Drury  Lane,  we  take 
not  his  generalities  for  gospel,  and  the  one  exploit 
whose  credibility  is  enforced  with  circumstance  was 
pitiful  both  in  conception  and  performance.  A  meet- 
ing of  freeholders  at  the  "  Mermaid  Tavern,"  Hackney, 
was  the  occasion,  and  after  drawing  blank  upon  blank, 
Vaux  succeeded  at  last  in  extracting  a  silver  snuiF-box. 
Now,  his  clumsiness  had  suggested  the  use  of  the 
scissors,  and  the  victim  not  only  discovered  the  scission 
in  his  coat,  but  caught  the  thief  with  the  implements 
pf  his  art  upon  him.  By  a  miracle  of  impudence 
Vaux  escaped  conviction,  but  he  deserved  the  gallows 
for  his  want  of  principle,  and  not  even  sympathy  could 
have  let  drop  a  tear,  had  justice  seized  her  due.  On 
the  straight  or  on  the  cross  the  canons  of  art  deserve 
respect ;  and  a  thief  is  great,  not  because  he  is  a  thief, 
but  because,  in  filling  his  own  pocket,  he  preserves 
from  violence  the  legitimate  traditions  of  his  craft. 

But  it  was  in  conflict  with  the  jewellers  that  Vaux 
best  proved  his  mettle.  It  was  his  wont  to  clothe  him- 
self "  in  the  most  elegant  attire,"  and  on  the  pretence 
of  purchase  to  rifle  the  shops  of  Piccadilly.  For  this 
offence — "pinching"  the  Cant  Dictionary  calls  it — he 


VAUX  i8s 

did  his  longest  stretch  of  time,  and  here  his  admirable 
qualities  of  cunning  and  coolness  found  their  most 
generous  scope.  A  love  of  fine  clothes  he  shared  with 
all  the  best  of  his  kind,  and  he  visited  Mr.  Bilger — the 
jeweller  who  arrested  him — magnificently  arrayed. 
He  wore  a  black  coat  and  waistcoat,  blue  pantaloons, 
Hessian  boots,  and  a  hat  "in  the  extreme  of  the 
newest  fashion."  He  was  also  resplendent  with  gold 
watch  and  eye-glass.  His  hair  was  powdered,  and  a 
fawney  sparkled  on  his  dexter  fem.  The  booty  was 
enormous,  and  a  week  later  he  revisited  the  shop  on 
another  errand.  This  second  visit  was  the  one  flash 
of  genius  in  a  somewhat  drab  career  :  the  jeweller  was 
so  completely  dumfounded,  that  Vaux  might  have  got 
clean  away.  But  though  he  kept  discreetly  out  of 
sight  for  a  while,  at  last  he  drifted  back  to  his  ancient 
boozing-ken,  and  was  there  betrayed  to  a  notorious 
thief-catcher.  The  inevitable  sentence  of  death  fol- 
lowed. It  was  commuted  after  the  fashion  of  the 
time,  and  Vaux,  having  sojourned  a  while  at  the 
Hulks,  sought  for  a  second  time  the  genial  airs  of 
Botany  Bay. 

His  vanity  and  his  laziness  were  alike  invincible. 
He  believed  himself  a  miracle  of  learning  as  well  as  a 
perfect  thief,  and  physical  toil  was  the  sole  *'  lay  "  for 
which  he  professed  no  capacity.  For  a  while  he 
corrected  the  press  for  a  printer,  and  he  roundly  asserts 
that  his  knowledge  of  literature  and  of  foreign  tongues 
rendered  him  invaluable.  It  was  vanity  again  that  in- 
duced him  to  assert  his  innocence  when  he  was  lagged 


i86  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

for  so  vulgar  a  crime  as  stealing  a  wipe  from  a  trades- 
man in  Chancery  Lane.  At  the  moment  of  arrest  he 
was  on  his  way  to  purchase  base  coin  from  a  White- 
chapel  bit-faker:  but,  despite  his  nefarious  errand, he  is 
righteously  wrathful  at  what  he  asserts  was  an  unjust 
conviction,  and  henceforth  he  assumed  the  crown  of 
martyrdom.  His  first  and  last  ambition  during  the 
intervals  of  freedom  was  gentility,  and  so  long  as  he 
was  not  at  work  he  lived  the  life  of  a  respectable 
grocer.  Although  the  casual  Cyprian  flits  across 
his  page,  he  pursued  the  one  flame  of  his  life  for  the 
good  motive,  and  he  affects  to  be  a  very  model  of 
domesticity.  The  sentiment  of  piety  also  was  strong 
upon  him,  and  if  he  did  not,  like  the  illustrious  Peace, 
pray  for  his  jailer,  he  rivalled  the  Prison  Ordinary  in 
comforting  the  condemned.  Had  it  only  been  his  fate 
to  die  on  the  gallows,  how  unctuous  had  been  his 
croak  ! 

The  text  of  his  *'  Memoirs  "  having  been  edited,  it  is 
scarce  possible  to  define  his  literary  talent.  The  book, 
as  it  stands,  is  an  excellent  piece  of  narrative,  but  it 
loses  somewhat  by  the  pretence  of  style.  The  man's 
invulnerable  conceit  prevented  an  absolute  frankness, 
and  there  is  little  enough  hilarity  to  correct  the  acid 
sentiment  and  the  intolerable  vows  of  repentance. 
Again,  though  he  knows  his  subject,  and  can  patter 
flash  with  the  best,  his  incorrigible  respectability  leads 
him  to  ape  the  manner  of  a  Grub  Street  hack,  and  to 
banish  to  a  vocabulary  those  pearls  of  slang  which 
might  have  added  vigour  and  lustre  to  his  somewhat 


VAUX  187 

tiresome  page.  However,  the  thief  cannot  escape  his 
inevitable  defects.  The  vanity,  the  weakness,  the 
sentimentality  of  those  who  are  born  beasts  of  prey, 
yet  have  the  feculty  of  depredation  only  half-developed, 
are  the  foes  of  truth,  and  it  is  well  to  remember  that 
the  autobiography  of  a  rascal  is  tainted  at  its  source. 
A  congenital  pickpocket,  equipped  with  the  self- 
knowledge  and  the  candour  which  would  enable  him 
to  recognise  himself  an  outlaw  and  justice  his  enemy 
rather  than  an  instrument  of  malice,  would  prove  a 
Napoleon  rather  than  a  Vaux.  So  that  we  must  e'en 
accept  our  Newgate  Calendar  with  its  many  faults 
upon  its  head,  and  be  content.  For  it  takes  a  man  of 
genius  to  write  a  book,  and  the  thief  who  turns  author 
commonly  inhabits  a  paradise  of  the  second-rate. 


GEORGE    HARRINGTON 


GEORGE    BARRINGTON 

AS  Captain  Hind  was  master  of  the  road,  George 
Barrington  was  (and  remains  for  ever)  the 
absolute  monarch  of  pickpockets.  Though  the  art, 
superseding  the  cutting  of  purses,  had  been  practised 
with  courage  and  address  for  half  a  century  before 
Barrington  saw  the  light,  it  was  his  own  incomparable 
genius  that  raised  thievery  from  the  dangerous  valley  of 
experiment,  and  set  it,  secure  and  honoured,  upon  the 
mountain  height  of  perfection.  To  a  natural  habit  of 
depredation,  which,  being  a  man  of  letters,  he  was  wont 
to  justify,  he  added  a  sureness  of  hand,  a  fertility  of 
resource,  a  recklessness  of  courage  which  drove  his 
contemporaries  to  an  amazed  respect,  and  from  which 
none  but  the  Philistine  will  withhold  his  admiration. 
An  accident  discovered  his  taste  and  talent.  At 
school  he  attempted  to  kill  a  companion — the  one  act 
of  violence  which  sullies  a  strangely  gentle  career ;  and 
outraged  at  the  affront  of  a  flogging,  he  fled  with  twelve 
guineas  and  a  gold  repeater  watch.  A  vulgar  theft 
this,  and  no  presage  of  future  greatness  ;  yet  it  proves 
the  fearless  greed,  the  contempt  of  private  property, 
which  mark  as  with  a  stigma  the  temperament  of  the 


192  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

prig.  His  faculty  did  not  rust  long  for  lack  of  use, 
and  at  Drogheda,  when  he  was  but  sixteen,  he  en- 
countered one  Price,  half  barn-stormer,  half  thief. 
Forthwith  he  embraced  the  twin  professions,  and  in  the 
interlude  of  more  serious  pursuits  is  reported  to  have 
made  a  respectable  appearance  as  JafBer  in  Venice 
Preserved.  For  a  while  he  dreamed  of  Drury  Lane 
and  glory  ;  but  an  atttachment  for  Miss  Egerton,  the 
Belvidera  to  his  own  Jaffier,  was  more  costly  than  the 
barns  of  Londonderry  warranted,  and,  with  Price  for  a 
colleague,  he  set  forth  on  a  tour  of  robbery,  merely 
interrupted  through  twenty  years  by  a  few  periods  of 
enforced  leisure. 

His  youth,  indeed,  was  his  golden  age.  For  four 
years  he  practised  his  art,  chilled  by  no  shadow  of 
suspicion,  and  his  immunity  was  due  as  well  to  his 
excellent  bearing  as  to  his  sleight  of  hand.  In  one  of 
the  countless  chap-books  which  dishonour  his  fame, 
he  is  unjustly  accused  of  relying  for  his  effects  upon  an 
elaborate  apparatus,  half  knife,  half  scissors,  wherewith 
to  rip  the  pockets  of  his  victims.  The  mere  back- 
biting of  envy  !  An  artistic  triumph  was  never  won 
save  by  legitimate  means  ;  and  the  hero  who  plundered 
the  Duke  of  L — r  at  Ranelagh,  who  emptied  the  pockets 
of  his  acquaintance  without  fear  of  exposure,  who  all 
but  carried  off  the  priceless  snufF-box  of  Count  OrlofF, 
most  assuredly  followed  his  craft  in  full  simplicity  and 
with  a  proper  scorn  of  clumsy  artifice.  At  his  first 
appearance  he  was  the  master,  sumptuously  apparelled, 
with  Price  for  valet.     At  Dublin  his  birth  and  quality 


GEORGE  BARRINGTON  193 

were  never  questioned,  and  when  he  made  a  descent 
upon  London  it  was  in  company  with  Captain  W. 
H — n,  who  remained  for  years  his  loyal  friend.  He 
visited  Brighton  as  the  chosen  companion  of  Lord 
Eerrers  and  the  wicked  Lord  Lyttelton.  His  manners 
and  learning  were  alike  irresistible.  Though  the 
picking  of  pockets  was  the  art  and  interest  of  his  Hfe, 
he  was  on  terms  of  easy  familiarity  with  light  literature, 
and  he  considered  no  toil  too  wearisome  if  only  his 
conversation  might  dazzle  his  victims.  Two  maxims 
he  charactered  upon  his  heart  :  the  one,  never  to  run  a 
large  risk  for  a  small  gain  ;  the  other,  never  to  forget 
the  carriage  and  diction  of  a  gentleman. 

He  never  stooped  to  pilfer,  until  exposure  and 
decay  had  weakened  his  hand.  In  his  first  week 
at  Dublin  he  carried  off  ^1000,  and  it  was  only  his 
fateful  interview  with  Sir  John  Fielding  that  gave 
him  poverty  for  a  bedfellow.  Even  at  the  end,  when 
he  slunk  from  town  to  town,  a  notorious  outlaw, 
he  had  inspirations  of  his  ancient  magnificence,  and 
— at  Chester — he  eluded  the  vigilance  of  his  enemies 
and  captured  ;^6oo,  wherewith  he  purchased  some 
months  of  respectability.  Now,  respectability  was  ever 
dear  to  him,  and  it  was  at  once  his  pleasure  and  profit 
to  live  in  the  highest  society.  Were  it  not  blasphemy 
to  sully  Barrington  with  slang  you  would  call  him  a 
member  of  the  swell-mob,  but,  having  cultivated  a  grave 
and  sober  style  for  himself,  he  recoiled  in  horror  from  the 
flash  lingo,  and  his  susceptibility  demands  respect. 

He  kept  a  commonplace  book  !     Was  ever  such 

N 


194         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

thrift  in  a  thief  ?  Whatever  images  or  thoughts  flashed" 
through  his  brain,  he  seized  them  on  paper,  even 
"  amidst  the  jollity  of  a  tavern,  or  in  the  warmth  of  an 
interesting  conversation."  Was  it  then  strange  that  he 
triumphed  as  a  man  of  fashionable  and  cultured  leisure  ? 
He  would  visit  Ranelagh  with  the  most  distinguished, 
and  turn  a  while  from  epigram  and  jest  to  empty  the 
pocket  of  a  rich  acquaintance.  And  ever  with  so 
tactful  a  certainty,  with  so  fine  a  restraint  of  the 
emotions,  that  suspicion  was  preposterous.  To  catalogue 
his  exploits  is  superfluous,  yet  let  it  be  recorded  that 
once  he  went  to  Court,  habited  as  a  clergyman,  and 
came  home  the  richer  for  a  diamond  order,  Lord  C — 's 
proudest  decoration.  Even  the  assault  upon  Prince 
OrlofF  was  nobly  planned.  Barrington  had  precise 
intelligence  of  the  marvellous  snufF-box — the  Empress's 
own  gift  to  her  lover  ;  he  knew  also  how  he  might 
meet  the  Prince  at  Drury  Lane  ;  he  had  even  discovered 
that  the  Prince  for  safety  hid  the  jewel  in  his  vest.  But 
the  Prince  felt  the  Prig's  hand  upon  the  treasure,  and 
gave  an  instant  alarm.  Over-confidence,  maybe,  or  a  too 
liberal  dinner  was  the  cause  of  failure,  and  Barrington, 
surrounded  in  a  moment,  was  speedily  in  the  lock-up. 
It  was  the  first  rebuflF  that  the  hero  had  received,  and 
straightway  his  tact  and  ingenuity  left  him.  The  evi- 
dence was  faulty,  the  prosecution  declined,  and  naught 
was  necessary  for  escape  save  presence  of  mind.  Even 
friends  were  staunch,  and  had  Barrington  told  his 
customary  lie,  his  character  had  gone  unsullied.  Yet 
having  posed  for  his  friends  as  a  student  of  the  law,  at 


GEORGE  BARRINGTON  195 

Bow  Street  he  must  needs  declare  himself  a  doctor, 
and  the  needless  discrepancy  ruined  him.  Though  he 
escaped  the  gallows,  there  was  an  end  to  the  diversions 
of  intellect  and  fashion  ;  as  he  discovered  when  he 
visited  the  House  of  Lords  to  hear  an  appeal,  and 
Black  Rod  ejected  him  at  the  persuasion  of  Mr.  G — . 
As  yet  unused  to  insult,  he  threatened  violence  against 
the  aggressor,  and  finding  no  bail  he  was  sent  on  his 
first  imprisonment  to  the  Bridewell  in  Tothill  Fields. 
Rapid,  indeed,  was  the  descent.  At  the  first  grip  of 
adversity,  he  forgot  his  cherished  principles,  and  twc 
years  later  the  loftiest  and  most  elegant  gentleman  that 
ever  picked  a  pocket  was  at  the  Hulks — for  robbing  a 
harlot  at  Drury  Lane !  Henceforth,  his  insolence  and 
artistry  declined,  and,  though  to  the  last  there  were 
intervals  of  grandeur,  he  spent  the  better  part  of  fifteen 
years  in  the  commission  of  crimes,  whose  very  littlenesu 
condemned  them.  At  last  an  exile  from  St.  James's 
and  Ranelagh,  he  was  forced  into  a  society  which  still 
further  degraded  him.  Hitherto  he  had  shunned  the 
society  of  professed  thieves  j  in  his  golden  youth  he 
had  scorned  to  shelter  him  in  the  flash  kens,  which  were 
the  natural  harbours  of  pickpockets.  But  now,  says 
his  biographer,  he  began  to  seek  evil  company,  and, 
the  victim  of  his  own  fame,  found  safety  only  in  obscene 
concealment. 

At  the  Hulks  he  recovered  something  of  his  dignity, 
and  discretion  rendered  his  first  visit  brief  enough. 
Even  when  he  was  committed  on  a  second  offence,  and 
had  attempted  suicide,  he  was  still  irresistible,  and  he 


196  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

was  discharged  with  several  years  of  imprisonment  to 
run.  But,  in  truth,  he  was  born  for  honour  and  dis- 
tinction, and  common  actions,  common  criminals,  were 
in  the  end  distasteful  to  him.  In  his  heyday  he  stooped 
no  further  than  to  employ  such  fences  as  might  profit- 
ably dispose  of  his  booty,  and  the  two  partners  of  his 
misdeeds  were  both  remarkable.  James,  the  earlier 
accompHce,  affected  clerical  attire,  and  in  1791  "was 
living  in  a  Westphalian  monastery,  to  which  he  some 
years  ago  retired,  in  an  enviable  state  of  peace  and 
penitence,  respected  for  his  talents,  and  loved  for  his 
amiable  manners,  by  which  he  is  distinguished  in  an 
eminent  degree."  The  other  ruffian,  Lowe  by  name, 
was  known  to  his  own  Bloomsbury  Square  for  a 
philanthropic  and  cultured  gentleman,  yet  only  suicide 
saved  him  from  the  gallows.  And  while  Barrington 
was  wise  in  the  choice  of  his  servants,  his  manners 
drove  even  strangers  to  admiration.  Policemen  and 
prisoners  were  alike  anxious  to  do  him  honour.  Once 
when  he  needed  money  for  his  own  defence,  his  brother 
thieves,  whom  he  had  ever  shunned  and  despised, 
collected  ;^ioo  for  the  captain  of  their  guild.  Nor  did 
gaoler  and  judge  ever  forget  the  respect  due  to  a  gentle- 
man. When  Barrington  was  tried  and  condemned  for 
the  theft  of  Mr.  Townsend's  watch  at  Enfield  Races — 
September  15,  1790,  was  the  day  of  his  last  trans- 
gression— one  knows  not  which  was  the  more  eloquent 
in  his  respect,  the  judge  or  the  culprit. 

But  it  was  not  until  the   pickpocket  set  out  for 
Botany  Bay  that  he  took  full  advantage  of  his  gentle- 


GEORGE  BARRINGTON  197 

manly  bearing.  To  thrust  "  Mr. "  Barrington  into 
the  hold  was  plainly  impossible,  even  though  trans- 
portation for  seven  years  w^as  his  punishment. 
Wherefore  he  was  admitted  to  the  boatswain's  mess, 
was  allowed  as  much  baggage  as  a  first-class  pas- 
senger, and  doubtless  beguiled  the  voyage  (for  others) 
with  the  information  of  a  well-stored  mind.  By 
an  inspiration  of  luck  he  checked  a  mutiny,  holding 
the  quarter-deck  against  a  mob  of  ruffians  with  no 
weapon  but  a  marline-spike.  And  hereafter,  as  he  tells 
you  in  his  "  Voyage  to  New  South  Wales,"  he  was 
accorded  the  fullest  liberty  to  come  or  go.  He  visited 
many  a  foreign  port  with  the  officers  of  the  ship  ;  he 
packed  a  hundred  note-books  with  trite  and  superfluous 
observations  ;  he  posed,  in  brief,  as  the  captain  of  the 
ship  without  responsibility.  Arrived  at  Port  Jackson, 
he  was  acclaimed  a  hero,  and  received  with  obsequious 
solicitude  by  the  Governor,  who  promised  that  his 
"  future  situation  should  be  such  as  would  render  his 
banishment  from  England  as  little  irksome  as  possible." 
Forthwith  he  was  appointed  high  constable  of  Para- 
matta, and,  like  Vautrin,  who  might  have  taken  the 
youthful  Barrington  for  another  Rastignac,  he  ended 
his  days  the  honourable  custodian  of  less  fortunate 
convicts.     Or,  as  a  broadside  ballad  has  it. 

He  left  old  Drury's  flash  purlieus, 
To  turn  at  last  a  copper. 

Never  did  he  revert  to  his  ancient  practice.     If  in 
his  youth  he  had  lived  the  double-life  with  an  effrontery 


198  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

and  elegance  which  Brodie  himself  never  attained, 
henceforth  his  career  was  single  in  its  innocence.  He 
became  a  prig  in  the  less  harmful  and  more  offensive 
sense.  After  the  orthodox  fashion  he  endeared  himself 
to  all  who  knew  him,  and  ruled  Paramatta  with  an 
equable  severity.  Having  cultivated  the  humanities 
for  the  base  purposes  of  his  trade^  he  now  devoted  him- 
self to  literature  with  an  energy  of  dulness,  becoming, 
as  it  were,  a  liberal  education  personified.  His  earlier 
efforts  had  been  in  verse,  and  you  wonder  that  no 
enterprising  publisher  had  ventured  on  a  limited  edition. 
Time  was  he  composed  an  ode  to  Light,  and  once 
recovering  from  a  fever  contracted  at  Ballyshannon,  he 
addressed  a  few  burning  lines  to  Hygeia  : 

Hygeia  !  thou  whose  eyes  display 
The  lustre  of  meridian  day ; 

and  so  on  for  endless  couplets.  Then,  had  he  not 
celebrated  in  immortal  verse  his  love  for  Miss  Egerton, 
untimely  drowned  in  the  waters  of  the  Boyne  ?  But 
now,  as  became  the  Constable  of  Paramatta,  he  chose 
the  sterner  medium,  and  followed  up  his  *'  Voyage  to 
New  South  Wales "  with  several  exceeding  trite  and 
valuable  histories. 

His  most  ambitious  work  was  dedicated  in  periods 
of  unctuous  piety  to  his  Majesty  King  George  HL, 
and  the  book's  first  sentence  is  characteristic  of 
his  method  and  sensibility  :  "  In  contemplating  the 
origin,  rise,  and  fall  of  nations,  the  mind  is  alter- 
nately filled  with  a  mixture  of  sacred  pain  and  plea- 


M 


GEORGE  BARRINGTON  199 

sure."  Would  you  read  further  ?  Then  you  will 
find  Fauna  and  Flora,  twin  goddesses  of  ineptitude, 
flitting  across  the  page,  unreadable  as  a  geographical 
treatise.  His  first  masterpiece  was  translated  into 
French,  anno  vi.,  and  the  translator  apologises  that  war 
with  England  alone  prevents  the  compilation  of  a  suit- 
able biography.  Was  ever  thief  treated  with  so  grave 
a  consideration  ?  Then,  another  work  was  prefaced 
by  the  Right  Hon.  William  Eden,  and  all  were  "  em- 
bellished with  beautiful  coloured  plates,"  and  ran 
through  several  editions.  Once  only  did  he  return  to 
poetry,  the  favoured  medium  of  his  youth,  and  he 
returned  to  write  an  imperishable  line.  But  even  then 
his  priggishness  persuaded  him  to  renounce  the  author- 
ship, and  to  disparage  the  achievement.  The  occasion 
was  the  opening  of  a  theatre  at  Sydney,  wherein  the 
parts  were  sustained  by  convicts.  The  cost  of  admis- 
sion to  the  gallery  was  one  shilling,  paid  in  money, 
flour,  meat,  or  spirits.  The  play  was  entitled  The 
Revenge  and  the  Hotel,  and  Barrington  provided  the 
prologue,  which  for  one  passage  is  for  ever  memorable. 
Thus  it  runs : 

From  distant  climes,  o'er  widespread  seas,  we  come. 
Though  not  with  much  eclat  or  beat  of  drum ; 
True  patriots  we,  for  be  it  understood. 
We  left  our  country  for  our  country's  good. 
No  private  views  disgraced  our  generous  zeal, 
What  urged  our  travels  was  our  country's  weal  ; 
And  none  will  doubt,  but  that  our  emigration 
Has  proved  most  useful  to  the  British  nation. 


200  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

"  We  left  our  country  for  our  country's  good."  That 
line,  thrown  fortuitously  into  four  hundred  pages  of 
solid  prose,  has  emerged  to  become  the  common  pos- 
session of  Fleet  Street.  It  is  the  man's  one  title  to 
literary  fame,  for  spurning  the  thievish  practice  he 
knew  so  well,  he  was  righteously  indignant  when  The 
London  Spy  was  fathered  upon  him.  Though  he  emptied 
his  contemporary's  pockets  of  many  thousands,  he 
enriched  the  Dictionary  of  Quotations  with  one  line, 
which  will  be  repeated  so  long  as  there  is  human  hand 
to  wield  a  pen.  And,  if  the  High  Constable  of  Para- 
matta was  tediously  respectable,  George  Barrington,^ 
the  Prig,  was  a  man  of  genius. 


THE    SWITCHER 
AND    GENTLEMAN   HARRY 

I 
THE    SWITCHER 


THE    SWITCHER 

DAVID  HAGGART  was  born  at  Canonmills, 
with  no  richer  birthright  than  thievish  fingers 
and  a  left  hand  of  surpassing  activity.  The  son  of  a 
gamekeeper,  he  grew  up  a  long-legged,  red-headed 
callant,  lurking  in  the  sombre  shadow  of  the  Cowgate, 
or  like  the  young  Sir  Walter,  championing  the  Auld 
Town  against  the  New  on  the  slopes  of  Arthur's  Seat. 
Kipping  was  his  early  sin ;  but  the  sportsman's  instinct, 
born  of  his  father's  trade,  was  so  strong  within  him, 
that  he  pinched  a  fighting  cock  before  he  was  breeched, 
and  risked  the  noose  for  horse  stealing  when  marbles 
should  have  engrossed  his  boyish  fancy.  Turbulent 
and  lawless,  he  bitterly  resented  the  intolerable  restraint 
of  a  tranquil  life,  and,  at  last,  in  the  hope  of  a  larger 
liberty,  he  enlisted  for  a  drummer  in  the  Norfolk 
Militia,  stationed  at  the  moment  in  Edinburgh  Castle. 
A  brief,  insubordinate  year,  misspent  in  his  country's 
service,  proved  him  hopeless  of  discipline :  he  claimed 
his  discharge,  and  henceforth  he  was  free  to  follow  the 
one  craft  for  which  nature  and  his  own  ambition  had 
moulded  him. 

Like  Chatterton,  like  Rimbaud,  Haggart  came  into 


204  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

the  full  possession  of  his  talent  while  still  a  child.  A 
Barrington  of  fourteen,  he  knew  every  turn  and  twist 
of  his  craft,  before  he  escaped  from  school.  His  youth- 
ful necessities  were  munificently  supplied  by  facile 
depredation,  and  the  only  hindrance  to  immediate 
riches  was  his  ignorance  of  the  flash  kens  where  he 
might  fence  his  plunder.  Meanwhile  he  painted  his 
soul  black  with  wickedness.  Such  hours  as  he  could 
snatch  from  the  profitable  conduct  of  his  trade  he 
devoted  to  the  austere  debauchery  of  Leith  or  the 
Golden  Acre.  Though  he  knew  not  the  seduction  of 
whisky,  he  missed  never  a  dance  nor  a  rafHe,  joining 
the  frolics  of  prigs  and  callets  in  complete  forgetfulness 
of  the  shorter  catechism.  In  vain  the  kirk  compared 
him  to  a  "  bottle  in  the  smoke  " ;  in  vain  the  minister 
whispered  of  hell  and  the  gallows ;  his  heart  hardened, 
as  his  fingers  grew  agile,  and  when,  at  sixteen,  he  left 
his  father's  house  for  a  sporting  life,  he  had  not  his 
equal  in  the  three  kingdoms  for  cunning  and  courage. 
His  first  accomplice  was  Barney  McGuire,  who — 
until  a  fourteen  stretch  sent  him  to  Botany  Bay — played 
Clytus  to  David's  Alexander,  and  it  was  at  Portobello 
races  that  their  brilliant  partnership  began.  Hitherto 
Haggart  had  worked  by  stealth;  he  had  tracked  his 
booty  under  the  cloud  of  night.  Now  was  the  moment 
to  prove  his  prowess  in  the  eye  of  day,  to  break  with  a 
past  which  he  already  deemed  ignoble.  His  heart 
leapt  with  the  occasion  :  he  tackled  his  adventure  with 
the  hot-head  energy  of  a  new  member,  big  with  his 
maiden  speech.     The  victim  was  chosen  in  an  instant: 


THE  SWITCHER  205 

a  backer,  whose  good  fortune  had  broken  the  book- 
makers. There  was  no  thief  on  the  course  who  did 
not  wait,  in  hungry  appetence,  the  sportsman's  descent 
from  the  stand  ;  yet  the  novice  outstripped  them  all. 
"  I  got  the  first  dive  at  his  keek-cloy,"  he  writes  in  his 
simple,  heroic  style,  "  and  was  so  eager  on  my  prey, 
that  I  pulled  out  the  pocket  along  with  the  money, 
and  nearly  upset  the  gentleman."  A  steady  brain 
saved  him  from  the  consequence  of  an  o'erbuoyant 
enthusiasm.  The  notes  were  passed  to  Barney  in  a 
flash,  and  when  the  sportsman  turned  upon  his  assailant, 
Haggart's  hands  were  empty. 

Thereupon  followed  an  infinite  series  of  brilliant 
exploits.  With  Barney  to  aid,  he  plundered  the 
Border  like  a  reiver.  He  stripped  the  yeomen  of 
Tweedside  with  a  ferocity  which  should  have  avenged 
the  disgrace  of  Flodden.  More  than  once  he  ran- 
sacked Ecclefechan,  though  it  is  unlikely  that  he 
emptied  the  lean  pocket  of  Thomas  Carlyle.  There 
was  not  a  gaff  from  Newcastle  to  the  Tay  which  he 
did  not  haunt  with  sedulous  perseverance ;  nor  was  he 
confronted  with  failure,  until  his  figure  became  a 
universal  terror.  His  common  method  was  to  price  a 
horse,  and  while  the  dealer  showed  Barney  the  animal's 
teeth,  Haggart  would  shp  under  the  uplifted  arm,  and 
ease  the  blockhead  of  his  blunt.  Arrogant  in  his  skill, 
delighted  with  his  manifold  triumphs,  Haggart  led  a 
life  of  unbroken  prosperity  under  the  brisk  air  of 
heaven,  and,  despite  the  risk  of  his  profession,  he 
remained  two  years  a  stranger  to  poverty  and  imprison- 


2©6  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

ment.  His  worse  mishap  was  to  slip  his  forks  into  an 
empty  pocket,  or  to  encounter  in  his  cups  a  milvader- 
ing  horse-dealer ;  but  his  joys  were  free  and  frank,  while 
he  exulted  in  his  success  with  a  boyish  glee.  ''I  was 
never  happier  in  all  my  life  than  when  I  fingered  all 
this  money,"  he  exclaims  when  he  had  captured  the 
comfortable  prize  of  two  hundred  pounds.  And  then 
he  would  make  merry  at  Newcastle  or  York,  forget- 
ting the  knowing  ones  for  a  while,  going  abroad  in 
white  cape  and  tops,  and  flicking  his  leg  like  a  gentle- 
man with  a  dandy  whip.  But  at  last  Barney  and  a 
wayward  ambition  persuaded  him  to  desert  his  proper 
craft  for  the  greater  hazard  of  cracking  a  crib,  and 
thus  he  was  involved  in  his  ultimate  ruin.  He  in- 
curred and  he  deserved  the  untoward  fate  of  those  who 
overlook  their  talents'  limitation ;  and  when  this  master 
of  pickpockets  followed  Barney  through  the  window 
of  a  secluded  house  upon  the  York  Road,  he  might 
already  have  felt  the  noose  tightening  at  his  neck. 
The  immediate  reward  of  this  bungled  attack  was 
thirty  pounds,  but  two  days  later  he  was  committed 
with  Barney  to  the  Durham  Assizes,  where  he  ex- 
changed the  obscurity  of  the  perfect  craftsman  for  the 
notoriety  of  the  dangerous  gaol-bird. 

For  the  moment,  however,  he  recovered  his  free- 
dom :  breaking  prison,  he  straightway  conveyed  i  a 
fiddlestick  to  his  comrade,  and  in  a  twinkling  was  at 
Newcastle  again,  picking  up  purses  well  lined  with 
gold,  and  robbing  the  bumpkins  of  their  scouts  and 
chats.   But  the  time  of  security  was  overpast.   Marked 


THE  SWITCHER  207 

and  suspicious,  he  began  to  fear  the  solitude  of  the 
country ;  he  left  the  horse-fair  for  the  city,  and  sought 
in  the  budging-kens  of  Edinburgh  the  secrecy  impos- 
sible on  the  hill-side.  A  clumsy  experiment  in  shop- 
lifting doubled  his  danger,  and  more  than  once  he  saw 
the  inside  of  the  police-office.  Henceforth,  he  was 
free  of  the  family;  he  loafed  in  the  Shirra-Brae;  he 
knew  the  flash  houses  of  Leith  and  the  Grassmarket. 
With  Jean  Johnston,  the  blowen  oi  his  choice,  he 
smeared  his  hands  with  the  squalor  of  petty  theft,  and 
the  drunken  recklessness  wherewith  he  swaggered  it 
abroad  hastened  his  approaching  downfall. 

With  a  perpetual  anxiety  to  avoid  the  nippers  his 
artistry  dwindled.  The  left  hand,  invincible  on  the 
Cheviots,  seemed  no  better  than  a  bunch  of  thumbs  in 
the  narrow  ways  of  Edinburgh  ;  and  after  innumerable 
misadventures  Haggart  was  safely  lodged  in  Dumfries 
gaol.  No  sooner  was  he  locked  within  his  cell  than 
his  restless  brain  planned  a  generous  escape.  He 
would  win  liberty  for  his  fellows  as  well  as  for  himself, 
and  after  a  brief  council  a  murderous  plot  was  framed 
and  executed.  A  stone  slung  in  a  handkerchief  sent 
the  gaoler  to  sleep ;  the  keys  found  on  him  opened  the 
massy  doors  ;  and  Haggart  was  free  with  a  reward  set 
upon  his  head.  The  shock  of  the  enterprise  restored 
his  magnanimity.  Never  did  he  display  a  finer  bravery 
than  in  this  spirited  race  for  his  life,  and  though  three 
counties  were  aroused  he  doubled  and  ducked  to  such 
purpose  that  he  outstripped  John  Richardson  himself 
with  all  his  bloodhounds,  and  two  days  later  marched 


2o8  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

into  Carlisle  disguised  in  the  stolen  rags  of  a  potato- 
bogle. 

During  the  few  months  that  remained  to  him  of 
life  he  embarked  upon  a  veritable  Odyssey  :  he  scoured 
Scotland  from  the  Border  to  St.  Andrews,  and  finally 
contrived  a  journey  oversea  to  Ireland,  where  he  made 
the  name  of  Daniel  O'Brien  a  terror  to  well-doers. 
Insolent  and  careless,  he  lurched  from  prison  to 
prison;  now  it  was  Armagh  that  held  him,  now  Down- 
patrick,  until  at  last  he  was  thrust  on  a  general  charge 
of  vagabondage  and  ill-company  into  Kilmainham, 
which  has  since  harboured  many  a  less  valiant  adven- 
turer than  David  Haggart.  Here  the  culminating 
disgrace  overtook  him  :  he  was  detected  in  the  prison 
yard  by  his  ancient  enemy,  John  Richardson,  of 
Dumfries,  who  dragged  him  back  to  Scotland  heavily 
shackled  and  charged  with  murder.  So  nimble  had  he 
proved  himself  in  extrication,  that  his  captors  secured 
him  with  pitiless  severity;  round  his  waist  he  carried 
an  iron  belt,  whereto  were  padlocked  the  chains,  clank- 
ing at  his  wrists  and  ankles.  Thus  tortured  and  help- 
less, he  was  fed  "like  a  sucking  turkey  in  Bedlam"; 
but  his  sorrows  vanished,  and  his  dying  courage  revived 
at  sight  of  the  torchlight  procession,  which  set  forth 
from  Dumfries  to  greet  his  return. 

His  coach  was  hustled  by  a  mob,  thousands  strong, 
eager  to  catch  sight  of  Haggart  the  Murderer,  and 
though  the  spot  where  he  slew  Morrin  was  like 
fire  beneath  his  passing  feet,  he  carried  to  his  cell 
a   heart  and   a   brain    aflame   with   gratified   vanity. 


THE  SWITCHER  209 

His  guilt  being  patent,  reprieve  was  as  hopeless 
as  acquittal,  and  after  the  assured  condemnation 
he  spent  his  last  few  days  with  what  profit  he 
might  in  religious  and  literary  exercises.  He  com- 
posed a  memoir,  which  is  a  model  of  its  kind  ;  so 
dihgently  did  he  make  his  soul,  that  he  could  appear 
on  the  scaffold  in  a  chastened  spirit  of  prayerful  grati- 
tude J  and,  being  an  eminent  scoundrel,  he  seemed  a 
proper  subject  for  the  ministrations  of  Mr.  George 
Combe.  "That  is  the  one  thing  I  did  not  know 
before,"  he  confessed  with  an  engaging  modesty,  when 
his  bumps  were  squeezed,  and  yet  he  was  more  than 
a  match  for  the  amiable  phrenologist,  whose  ignorance 
of  mankind  persuaded  him  to  believe  that  an  illiterate 
felon  could  know  himself  and  analyse  his  character. 

But  his  character  escaped  his  critics  as  it  escaped 
himself.  Time  was  when  George  Borrow,  that  other 
picaroon,  surprised  the  youthful  David,  thinking  of 
Willie  Wallace  upon  the  Castle  Rock,  and  Lavengro's 
romantic  memory  transformed  the  raw-boned  pick- 
pocket into  a  monumental  hero,  who  lacked  nothing 
save  a  vast  theatre  to  produce  a  vast  effect.  He  was  a 
Tamerlane,  robbed  of  his  opportunity ;  a  valiant  war- 
rior, who  looked  in  vain  for  a  battlefield  ;  a  marauder 
who  climbed  the  scaffold  not  fdr  the  magaitude,  but 
for  the  littleness  of  his  sins.  Thus  Borrow,  in  com- 
plete misunderstanding  of  the  rascal's  qualities. 

Now,  Haggart's  ambition  was  as  circumscribed  as  his 
ability.  He  died,  as  he  was  born,  an  expert  cly-faker, 
whose  achievements  in  sleight  of  hand  are  as  yet  un- 

o 


210  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

paralleled.  Had  the  world  been  one  vast  breast-pocket 
his  fish-hook  fingers  would  have  turned  it  inside  out. 
But  it  was  not  his  to  mount  a  throne,  or  overthrow  a 
dynasty.  '*  My  forks,"  he  boasted,  *'are  equally  long,  and 
they  never  fail  me."  That  is  at  once  the  reason  and  the 
justification  of  his  triumph.  Born  with  a  consum- 
mate artistry  tingling  at  his  finger-tips,  how  should  he 
escape  the  compulsion  of  a  glorious  destiny  ?  Without 
fumbling  or  failure  he  discovered  the  single  craft  for 
which  fortune  had  framed  him,  and  he  pursued  it  with 
a  courage  and  an  industry  which  gave  him  not  a  king- 
dom, but  fame  and  booty,  exceeding  even  his  greedy 
aspiration.  No  Tamerlane  he,  questing  for  a  con- 
tinent, but  David  Haggart,  the  man  with  the  long 
forks,  happy  if  he  snatched  his  neighbour's  purse. 

Before  all  things  he  respected  the  profession  which 
his  left  hand  made  inevitable,  and  which  he  pursued 
with  unconquerable  pride.  Nor  in  his  inspired  youth 
was  plunder  his  sole  ambition :  he  cultivated  the 
garden  of  his  style  with  the  natural  zeal  of  the  artist  j 
he  frowned  upon  the  bungler  with  a  lofty  contempt* 
His  materials  were  simplicity  itself:  his  forks,  which 
were  always  with  him,  and  another's  well-filled  pocket, 
since,  sensible  of  danger,  he  cared  not  to  risk  his  neck 
for  a  purse  that  did  not  contain  so  much  as  would 
"sweeten  a  grawler."  At  its  best,  his  method  was 
always  witty — that  is  the  single  word  which  will 
characterise  it — witty  as  a  piece  of  Heine's  prose,  and 
as  dangerous.  He  would  run  over  a  man's  pockets 
while  he  spoke  with  him,  returning  what  he  chose  to 


THE  SWITCHER  211 

discard  without  the  lightest  breath  of  suspicion.  "  A 
good  workman,"  his  contemporaries  called  him;  and 
they  thought  it  a  shame  for  him  to  be  idle.  Moreover, 
he  did  not  blunder  unconsciously  upon  his  triumph; 
he  tackled  the  trade  in  so  fine  a  spirit  of  analysis  that 
he  might  have  been  the  very  Aristotle  of  his  science. 
*'The  keek-cloy,"  he  wrote,  in  his  hints  to  young 
sportsmen,  "  is  easily  picked.  If  the  notes  are  in  the 
long  fold,  just  tip  them  the  forks ;  but  if  there  is  a 
purse  or  open  money  in  the  case,  you  must  link  it." 
The  breast-pocket,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  severer  test. 
*'  Picking  the  suck  is  sometimes  a  kittle  job,"  again 
the  philosopher  speaks.  "If  the  coat  is  buttoned  it 
must  be  opened  by  slipping  past.  Then  bring  the  HI 
down  between  the  flap  of  the  coat  and  the  body, 
keeping  your  spare  arm  across  your  man's  breast,  and 
so  slip  it  to  a  comrade ;  then  abuse  the  fellow  for 
jostling  you." 

But  not  only  did  he  master  the  tradition  of 
thievery ;  he  vaunted  his  originality  with  the  familiar 
complacence  of  the  scoundrel.  Forgetting  that  it 
was  by  burglary  that  he  was  undone,  he  explains  for 
his  public  glorification  that  he  was  wont  to  enter  the 
houses  of  Leith  by  forcing  the  small  window  above  the 
outer  door.  This  artifice,  his  vanity  grumbles,  is  now 
common  ;  but  he  would  have  all  the  world  understand 
that  it  was  his  own  invention,  and  he  murmurs  with 
the  priggishness  of  the  convicted  criminal  that  it  is 
now  set  forth  for  the  better  protection  of  honest 
citizens.     No  less  admirable  in  his  own  eyes  was  that 


212  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

other  artifice  which  induced  him  to  conceal  such  notes 
as  he  managed  to  filch  in  the  collar  of  his  coat.  Thus 
he  eluded  the  vigilance  of  the  police,  which  searched 
its  prey  in  those  days  with  a  sorry  lack  of  cunning. 
But,  in  truth,  Haggart's  wits  were  as  nimble  as  his 
fingers,  and  he  seldom  failed  to  render  a  profitable 
account  of  his  talents.  He  beguiled  one  of  his  many 
sojourns  in  gaol  by  manufacturing  tinder  wherewith 
to  light  the  prisoners'  pipes,  and  it  is  not  astonishing 
that  he  won  an  instant  popularity.  In  Ireland,  when 
the  constables  would  take  him  for  a  Scot,  he  answered 
in  high  Tipperary,  and  saved  his  skin  for  a  while  by  a 
brogue  which  would  not  have  shamed  a  modern  patriot. 
But  quick  as  were  his  wits,  his  vanity  always 
outstripped  them,  and  no  hero  ever  bragged  of  his 
achievements  with  a  louder  effrontery. 

Now  all  you  ramblers  in  mourning  go, 
For  the  prince  of  ramblers  is  lying  low, 
And  all  you  maidens  that  love  the  game, 
Put  on  your  mourning  veils  again. 

Thus  he  celebrated  his  downfall  in  a  ballad  that  has  the 
true  Newgate  ring,  and  verily  in  his  own  eyes  he  was 
a  hero  who  carried  to  the  scaffold  a  dauntless  spirit 
unstained  by  treachery. 

He  believed  himself  an  adept  in  all  the  arts  ;  as  a 
squire  of  dames  he  held  himself  peerless,  and  he  assured 
the  ineffable  Combe,  who  recorded  his  flippant  utter- 
ance with  a  credulous  respect,  that  he  had  sacrificed 
hecatombs  of  innocent  virgins  to  his  importunate  lust. 


THE  SWITCHER  213 

Prose  and  verse  trickled  with  equal  facility  from  his 
pen,  and  his  biography  is  a  masterpiece.  Written  in 
the  pedlar's  French  as  it  was  mis-spoken  in  the  hells  of 
Edinburgh,  it  is  a  narrative  of  uncommon  simplicity 
and  directness,  marred  now  and  again  by  such  super- 
fluous reflections  as  are  the  natural  result  of  thievish 
sentimentality.  He  tells  his  tale  without  paraphrase  or 
adornment,  and  the  worthy  Writer  to  the  Signet, 
who  prepared  the  work  for  the  Press,  would  have 
asked  three  times  the  space  to  record  one-half  the 
adventures.  "I  sunk  upon  it  with  my  forks  and 
brought  it  with  me " ;  *'  We  obtained  thirty-three 
pounds  by  this  affair" — is  there  not  the  stalwart 
flavour  of  the  epic  in  these  plain,  unvarnished  sen- 
tences ? 

But  his  other  accomplishments  are  pallid  in  the 
light  of  his  brilliant  left  hand.  Once,  at  Derry — he 
attended  a  cock-fight,  and  beguiled  an  interval  by 
emptying  the  pockets  of  a  lucky  bookmaker.  An 
expert,  who  watched  the  exploit  in  admiration,  could 
not  withhold  a  compliment.  "  You  are  the  Switcher," 
he  exclaimed  ;  **  some  take  all,  but  you  leave  nothing." 
And  it  is  as  the  Switcher  that  Haggart  keeps  his 
memory  green. 


II 

GENTLEMAN   HARRY 


GENTLEMAN   HARRY 

"  "PX  AMN  ye  both  !  stop,  or  I  will  blow  your  brains 
1^  out ! "  Thus  it  was  that  Harry  Simms  greeted 
his  victims,  proving  in  a  phrase  that  the  heroic  age  of  the 
rumpad  was  no  more.  Forgotten  the  debonair  courtesy 
of  Claude  Duval !  Forgotten  the  lightning  wit,  the 
swift  repartee  of  the  incomparable  Hind  !  No  longer 
was  the  hightoby-gloak  a  "gentleman"  of  the  road;  he 
was  a  butcher,  if  not  a  beggar,  on  horseback ;  a 
braggart  without  the  courage  to  pull  a  trigger ;  a 
swashbuckler,  oblivious  of  that  ancient  style  which 
converted  the  misery  of  surrender  into  a  privilege. 
Yet  Harry  Simms,  the  supreme  adventurer  of  his  age, 
was  not  without  distinction ;  his  lithe  form  and  his 
hard-ridden  horse  were  the  common  dread  of  England  ; 
his  activity  was  rewarded  with  a  princely  treasure  ;  and 
if  his  method  were  lacking  in  urbanity,  the  excuse  is 
that  he  danced  not  to  the  brilliant  measure  of  the 
Cavaliers,  but  limped  to  the  clumsy  fiddle-scraping  of 
the  early  Georges. 

At  Eton,  where  a  too-indulgent  grandmother  had 
placed  him,  he  ransacked  the  desks  of  his  schoolfellows, 
and   avenged   a   birching   by   emptying   his   master's 


2i8  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

pockets.  Wherefore  he  lost  the  hope  of  a  polite 
education,  and  instead  of  proceeding  with  a  clerkly 
dignity  to  King's  College,  in  the  University  of 
Cambridge,  he  was  ignominiously  apprenticed  to  a 
breeches-maker.  But  the  one  restraint  was  as  irksome 
as  the  other,  and  Harry  Simms  abandoned  the  needle, 
as  he  had  scorned  the  grammar,  to  go  upon  the  pad. 
Though  his  early  companions  were  scragged  at  Tyburn 
the  light-fingered  rascal  was  indifferent  to  their  fate, 
and  squandering  such  booty  as  fell  to  his  share,  he 
bravely  "  turned  out "  for  more.  Tottenham  Court 
Fair  was  the  theatre  of  his  childish  exploits,  and  there 
he  gained  some  little  skill  in  the  picking  of  pockets. 
But  a  spell  of  bad  trade  brought  him  to  poverty,  and  he 
attempted  to  replenish  an  empty  pocket  by  the  childish 
expedient  of  a  threatening  letter. 

The  plan  was  conceived  and  executed  with  a  futility 
which  ensured  an  instant  capture.  The  bungler  chose  a 
stranger  at  haphazard,  commanding  him,  under  penalty 
of  death,  to  lay  five  guineas  upon  a  gun  in  Tower 
Wharf;  the  guineas  were  cunningly  deposited,  and  the 
rascal,  caught  with  his  hand  upon  the  booty,  was  com- 
mitted to  Newgate.  Youth,  and  the  intercession  of  his 
grandmother,  procured  a  release,  unjustified  by  the  in- 
famous stupidity  of  the  trick.  Its  very  clumsiness 
should  have  sent  him  over  sea  ;  and  it  is  wonderful 
that  from  a  beginning  of  so  little  promise,  he  should 
have  climbed  even  the  first  slopes  of  greatness.  How- 
ever, the  memory  of  gaol  forced  him  to  a  brief  interlude 
of  honesty  j    for  a  while  he  wore  the  pink  coat  of 


GENTLEMAN  HARRY  219 

Colonel  Cunningham's  postillion,  and  presently  was 
promoted  to  the  independence  of  a  hackney  coach. 

Thus  employed,  he  became  acquainted  with  the 
famous  Cyprians  of  Covent  Garden,  who,  loving  him  for 
his  handsome  face  and  sprightly  gesture,  seduced  him  to 
desert  his  cab  for  an  easier  profession.  So  long  as  the 
sky  was  fair,  he  lived  under  their  amiable  protection ; 
but  the  summer  having  chased  the  smarter  gentry  from 
town,  the  ladies  could  afford  him  no  more  than  would 
purchase  a  horse  and  a  pair  of  pistols,  so  that  Harry 
was  compelled  to  challenge  fortune  on  the  high  road. 
His  first  journey  was  triumphantly  successful.  A  post- 
chaise  and  a  couple  of  coaches  emptied  their  wealth 
into  his  hands,  and,  riding  for  London,  he  was  able  to 
return  the  favours  lavished  upon  him  by  Covent 
Garden.  At  the  first  touch  of  gold  he  was  transformed 
to  a  finished  blade.  He  purchased  himself  a  silver- 
hiked  sword,  which  he  dangled  over  a  discreet  suit  ot 
black  velvet;  a  prodigious  run  of  luck  at  the  gaming- 
tables kept  his  purse  well  lined  ;  and  he  made  so  brilliant 
an  appearance  in  his  familiar  haunts  that  he  speedily 
gained  the  name  of  "  Gentleman  Harry."  But  the 
money,  lightly  won,  was  lightly  spent.  The  tables 
took  back  more  than  they  gave,  and  before  long  Simms 
Was  astride  his  horse  again,  flourishing  his  irons,  and 
crying :  "  Stand  and  deliver "  !  upon  every  road  in 
England. 

Epping  Forest  was  his  general  hunting-ground,  but 
his  enterprise  took  him  far  afield,  and  if  one  night  he 
galloped  by  starlight  across  Bagshot  Heath,  another  he 


220         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

was  holding  up  the  York  stage  with  unbridled  insolence. 
He  robbed,  he  roared,  he  blustered  with  praiseworthy 
industry ;  and  good  luck  coming  to  the  aid  of  caution, 
he  escaped  for  a  while  the  necessary  punishment  of  his 
crimes.  It  was  on  Stockbridge  Downs  that  he  met 
his  first  check.  He  had  stopped  a  chariot,  and  came 
off  with  a  hatful  of  gold,  but  the  victims,  impatient  of 
disaster,  raised  the  county,  and  Gentleman  Harry  was 
laid  by  the  heels.  Never  at  a  loss,  he  condescended  to 
a  cringing  hypocrisy :  he  whined,  he  whimpered,  he 
babbled  of  reform,  he  plied  his  prosecutors  with  letters 
so  packed  with  penitence,  that  they  abandoned  their 
case,  and  in  a  couple  of  days  Simms  had  eased  a  col- 
lector at  Eversey  Bank  of  three  hundred  pounds.  For 
this  enterprise  two  others  climbed  the  gallows,  and  the 
robber's  pride  in  his  capture  was  miserably  lessened  by 
the  shedding  of  innocent  blood. 

But  he  forgot  his  remorse  as  speedily  as  he  dis- 
sipated his  money,  and  sentimentality  neither  damped 
his  enjoyment  nor  restrained  his  energy.  Even 
his  brief  visits  to  London  were  turned  to  the  best 
account;  and,  though  he  would  have  the  world  believe 
him  a  mere  voluptuary,  his  eye  was  bent  sternly  upon 
business.  If  he  did  lose  his  money  in  a  gambling  hell, 
he  knew  who  won  it,  and  spoke  with  his  opponent  on 
the  homeward  way.  In  his  eyes  a  fuddled  rake  was 
always  fair  game,andthe  stern  windows  of  St.  Clement's 
Church  looked  down  upon  many  a  profitable  adventure. 
His  most  distinguished  journey  was  to  Ireland,  whither 
he  set  forth  to  find  a  market  for  his  stolen  treasure. 


GENTLEMAN  HARRY  221 

But  he  determined  that  the  road  should  bear  its  own 
charges,  and  he  reached  Dublin  a  richer  man  than  he 
left  London.  In  three  months  he  was  penniless,  but 
he  did  not  begin  trade  again  until  he  had  recrossed  the 
Channel,  and,  having  got  to  work  near  Chester,  he 
returned  to  the  Piazza  fat  with  bank-notes. 

With  success,  his  extravagance  increased,  and,  living 
the  life  of  a  man  about  town,  he  was  soon  harassed  by 
debt.  More  than  once  he  was  lodged  in  the  Marshalsea, 
and  as  his  violent  temper  resented  the  interference  of  a 
dun,  he  became  notorious  for  his  assaults  upon  sheriff's 
officers.  And  thus  his  poor  skill  grew  poorer :  forget- 
ting his  trade,  he  expected  that  brandy  would  ease  his 
embarrassment.  At  last,  sodden  with  drink,  he  enlisted 
in  the  Guards,  from  which  regiment  he  deserted,  only 
to  be  pressed  aboard  a  man-of-war.  Freed  by  a  clever 
trick,  he  took  to  the  road  again,  until  a  paltry  theft 
from  a  barber  transported  him  to  Maryland.  There 
he  turned  sailor,  and  his  ship.  The  Two  Sisters^  being 
taken  by  a  privateer,  he  contrived  to  scramble  into 
Portugal,  whence  he  made  his  way  back  to  England, 
and  to  the  only  adventure  of  which  he  was  master.  He 
landed  with  no  more  money  than  the  price  of  a  pistol, 
but  he  prigged  a  prancer  at  Bristol  horsefeir,  and  set 
out  upon  his  last  journey.  The  tide  of  his  fortune  was 
at  flood.  He  crammed  his  pockets  with  watches  j  he  was 
owner  of  enough  diamonds  to  set  up  shop  in  a  fashion- 
able quarter  ;  of  guineas  he  had  as  many  as  would 
support  his  magnificence  for  half  a  year  j  and  at  last  he 
resolved  to  quit  the  road,  and  to  live  like  the  gentleman 


222         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

he  was.  To  this  prudence  he  was  the  more  easily 
persuaded,  because  not  only  were  the  thief-takers  eager 
for  his  capture,  but  he  was  a  double-dyed  deserter, 
whose  sole  chance  of  quietude  was  a  decent  obscurity. 
His  resolution  was  taken  at  St.  Albans,  and  over  a 
comfortable  dinner  he  pictured  a  serene  and  uneventful 
future.  On  the  morrow  he  would  set  forth  to  Dublin, 
sell  his  handsome  stock  of  jewels,  and  forget  that  the 
cart  ever  lumbered  up  Tyburn  Hill.  So  elated  was  he 
with  his  growing  virtue,  that  he  called  for  a  second 
bottle,  and  as  the  port  heated  his  blood  his  fingers 
tingled  for  action.  A  third  bottle  proved  beyond  dispute 
that  only  the  craven  were  idle ;  "  and  why,"  he  ex- 
claimed, generous  with  wine,  "should  the  most 
industrious  rulHer  of  England  condescend  to  inaction  ?'* 
Instantly  he  summoned  the  ostler,  screaming  for  his 
horse,  and  before  Redburn  he  had  emptied  four  pockets, 
and  had  exchanged  his  own  tired  jade  for  a  fresh  and 
willing  beast.  Still  exultant  in  his  contempt  of 
cowardice,  he  faced  the  Warrington  stage,  and  made 
off  with  his  plunder  at  a  drunken  gallop".  Arrived  at 
Dunstable,  he  was  so  befogged  with  liquor  and  pride, 
that  he  entered  the  "  Bull  Inn,"  the  goal  of  the  very 
coach  he  had  just  encountered.  He  had  scarce  called 
for  a  quartern  of  brandy  when  the  robbed  passengers 
thronged  into  the  kitchen;  and  the  fright  gave  him 
enough  sobriety  to  leave  his  glass  untasted,  and  stagger 
to  his  horse.  In  a  wild  fury  of  arrogance  and  terror,  of 
conflicting  vice  and  virtue,  he  pressed  on  to  Hockcliffe, 
where  he  took  refuge  from  the  rain,  and  presently. 


GENTLEMAN  HARRY  223 

fuddled  with  more  brandy,  he  fell   asleep    over    the 
kitchen  fire. 

But  by  this  time  the  hue  and  cry  was  raised ;  and 
as  the  hero  lay  helpless  in  the  corner  three  troopers 
burst  into  the  inn,  levelled  their  pistols  at  his  head, 
and  threatened  instant  death  if  he  put  his  hand  to 
his  pocket.  Half  asleep,  and  wholly  drunk,  he  made 
not  the  smallest  show  of  resistance  j  he  surrendered  all 
his  money,  watches,  and  diamonds,  save  a  little  that 
was  sewn  into  his  neckcloth,  and  sulkily  crawled  up  to 
his  bed-chamber.  Thither  the  troopers  followed  him, 
and  having  restored  some  nine  pounds  at  his  urgent 
demand,  they  watched  his  heavy  slumbers.  For  all 
his  brandy  Simms  slept  but  uneasily,  and  awoke  in  the 
night  sick  with  the  remorse  which  is  bred  of  ruined 
plans  and  a  splitting  head.  He  got  up  wearily,  and  sat 
over  the  fire  "  a  good  deal  chagrined,"  to  quote  his  own 
simple  phrase,  at  his  miserable  capture.  Escape  seemed 
hopeless  indeed  ;  there  crouched  the  vigilant  troopers, 
scowling  on  their  prey.  A  thousand  plans  chased  each 
other  through  the  hero's  fuddled  brain,  and  at  last  he 
resolved  to  tempt  the  cupidity  of  his  guardians,  and  to 
make  himself  master  of  their  fire-arms.  There  were 
still  left  him  a  couple  of  seals,  one  gold,  the  other  silver, 
and,  watching  his  opportunity,  Simms  flung  them  with 
a  flourish  in  the  fire.  It  fell  out  as  he  expected  j  the 
hungry  troopers  made  a  dash  to  save  the  trinkets  j  the 
prisoner  seized  a  brace  of  pistols  and  leapt  to  the  door. 
But,  alas,  the  pistols  missed  fire,  Harry  was  immediately 
overpowered,  and  on  the  morrow  was  carried,  sick  and 


224         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

sorry,  before  the  Justice.  From  Dunstable  he  travelled 
his  last  journey  to  Newgate,  and,  being  condemned  at 
the  Old  Bailey,  he  was  hanged  till  he  was  dead,  and 
his  body  thereafter  was  carried  for  dissection  to  a 
surgeon's  in  that  same  Covent  Garden  where  he  first 
-deserted  his  hackney  cab  for  the  pleasures  of  the 
town. 

*'  Gentleman  Harry "  was  neither  a  brilliant  thief 
nor  a  courteous  highwayman.  There  was  no  touch 
of  the  grand  manner  even  in  his  prettiest  achievement. 
His  predecessors  had  made  a  pistol  and  a  vizard  an 
overwhelming  terror,  and  he  did  but  profit  by  their 
tradition  when  he  bade  the  cowed  traveller  stand  and 
deliver.  His  profession,  as  he  practised  it,  neither 
demanded  skill  nor  incurred  danger.  Though  he 
threatened  death  at  every  encounter,  you  never  hear 
that  he  pulled  a  trigger  throughout  his  career.  If  his 
opponent  jeered  and  rode  ofF,  he  rode  off  with  a  whole 
skin  and  a  full  pocket.  Once  even  this  renowned 
adventurer  accepted  the  cut  of  a  riding-whip  across  his 
face,  nor  made  any  attempt  to  avenge  the  insult.  But 
his  manifold  shortcomings  were  no  hindrance  to  his 
success.  Wherever  he  went,  between  London  and 
York,  he  stopped  coaches  and  levied  his  tax.  A 
threatening  voice,  an  arched  eyebrow,  an  arrogant 
method  of  fingering  an  unloaded  pistol,  conspired  with 
the  craven,  indolent  habit  of  the  time  to  make  his 
every  journey  a  procession  of  triumph.  He  was 
capable  of  performing  all  such  feats  as  the  age  required 
•of  him.     But  you  miss  the  spirit,  the  bravery,  the 


GENTLEMAN  HARRY  225 

urbanity,  and  the  wit,  which  made  the  adventurer  of 
the  seventeenth  century  a  figure  of  romance. 

One  point  only  of  the  great  tradition  did  Harry 
Simms  remember.  He  was  never  unwilling  to  restore 
a  trinket  made  precious  by  sentiment.  Once  when  he 
took  a  gold  ring  from  a  gentleman's  finger,  a  gentle- 
woman burst  into  tears,  exclaiming,  *' There  goes 
your  fether's  ring."  Whereupon  Simms  threw  all  his 
booty  into  a  hat,  saying,  *'  For  God's  sake,  take  that 
or  anything  else  you  please."  But  in  all  other  respects 
he  was  a  bully,  with  the  hesitancy  of  a  coward,  rather 
than  the  proper  rival  of  Hind  or  Duval.  Apart  from 
the  exercise  of  his  trade,  he  was  a  very  Mohock  for 
brutality.  He  would  ill-treat  his  victims,  whenever 
their  drunkenness  permitted  the  freedom,  and  he  had 
no  better  gifts  for  the  women  who  were  kind  to  him 
than  cruelty  and  neglect.  One  of  his  many  imprison- 
ments was  the  result  of  a  monstrous  ferocity.  "  Un- 
luckily in  a  quarrel,"  he  tells  you  gravely,  "  I  ran  a 
crab-stick  into  a  woman's  eye";  and  well  did  he 
deserve  his  sojourn  in  the  New  Prison.  At  another 
time  he  rewarded  the  keeper  of  a  coffee-house,  who 
supported  him  for  six  months,  by  stealing  her  watch ; 
and,  when  she  grumbled  at  his  insolence,  he  reflected, 
with  a  chuckle,  that  she  could  more  easily  bear  the 
loss  of  her  watch  than  the  loss  of  her  lover.  Even  in 
his  gaiety  there  was  an  unpleasant  spice  of  greed  and 
truculence.  Once,  when  he  was  still  seen  in  fashion- 
able company,  he  went  to  a  masquerade,  dressed  in  a 
rich  Spanish  habit,  lent  him  by  a   Captain   in   the 

p 


226         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

Guards,  and  he  made  so  fine  a  show  that  he  captivated 
a  young  and  beautiful  Cyprian,  whom,  when  she 
would  have  treated  him  with  generosity,  he  did  but 
reward  with  the  loss  of  all  her  jewels. 

Moreover,  he  had  so  small  a  regard  for  his  craft, 
that  he  would  spoil  his  effects  by  drink  or  debauchery ; 
and,  though  a  highwayman,  he  cared  so  little  for  style, 
that  he  would  as  lief  trick  a  drunken  gamester  as  face 
his  man  on  Bagshot  Heath  or  beneath  the  shade  of 
Epping  Forest.  You  admire  not  his  success,  because, 
like  the  success  of  the  popular  politician,  it  depended 
rather  upon  his  dupes  than  upon  his  merit.  You  ap- 
prove not  his  raffish  exploits  in  the  hells  of  Covent 
Garden  or  Drury  Lane.  But  you  cannot  withhold 
respect  from  his  consistent  dandyism,  and  you  are 
grateful  for  the  record  that,  engaged  in  a  mean  enter- 
prise, he  was  dressed  "  in  a  green  velvet  frock  and  a 
short  lac'd  waistcoat."  Above  all,  his  picturesque 
capture  at  HockclifFe,  atones  for  much  stupidity. 
The  resolution,  wavering  at  the  wine-glass,  the  last 
drunken  ride  from  St.  Albans — these  are  inventions  in 
experience,  which  should  make  Simms  immortal. 
And  when  he  sits  "by  the  fireside  a  good  deal 
chagrined,"  he  recalls  the  arrest  of  a  far  greater  man — 
even  of  Cartouche,  who  was  surprised  by  the  soldiers 
at  his  bedside  stitching  a  torn  pair  of  breeches.  His 
autobiography,  wherein  "he  relates  the  truth  as  a 
dying  man,"  seemed  excellent  in  the  eyes  of  Borrow, 
who  loved  it  so  well  that  he  imagined  a  sentence, 
ascribed  it  falsely  to  Simms,  and  then  rewarded  it  with 


GENTLEMAN  HARRY  227 

extravagant  applause.  But  Gentleman  Harry  knew 
how  to  tell  a  simple  story,  and  the  book,  *'  all  wrote  by 
myself  while  under  sentence  of  death,"  is  his  best 
performance.  In  action  he  had  many  faults,  for,  if  he 
was  a  highwayman  among  rakes,  he  was  but  a  rake 
among  highwaymen. 


Ill 
A  PARALLEL 

(THE  SWITCHER  AND  GENTLE- 
MAN  HARRY) 


A    PARALLEL 

(THE  SWITCHER  AND  GENTLEMAN  HARRY) 

HAGGART  and  Simms  are  united  in  the  praise  of 
Borrow, and  in  the  generous  applause  of  posterity. 
Each  resumes  for  his  own  generation  the  prowess  of 
his  kind.  Each  has  assured  his  immortality  by  an 
experiment  in  literature  j  and  if  epic  simplicity  and 
rapid  narrative  are  the  virtues  of  biography,  it  is 
difficult  to  award  the  prize.  The  Switcher  preferred 
to  write  in  the  rough  lingo,  wherein  he  best  expressed 
himself.  He  packs  his  pages  with  ill-spelt  slang, 
telling  his  story  of  thievery  in  the  true  language  of 
thieves.  Gentleman  Harry,  as  became  a  person  of 
quality,  mimicked  the  dialect  wherewith  he  was  familiar 
in  the  more  fashionable  gambling  dens  of  Covent 
Garden.  Both  write  without  the  smallest  suggestion 
of  false  shame  or  idle  regret,  and  a  natural  vanity  lifts 
each  of  them  out  of  the  pit  of  commonplace  on  to  the 
tableland  of  the  heroic.  They  set  forth  their  depreda- 
tion, as  a  victorious  general  might  record  his  triumphs, 
and  they  excel  the  nimblest  Ordinary  that  ever  penned 
a  dying  speech  in  all  the  gifts  of  the  historian. 


232  A  PARALLEL 

But  when  you  leave  the  study  for  the  field, 
the  Switcher  instantly  declares  his  superiority.  He 
had  the  happiness  to  practise  his  craft  in  its  hey- 
day, while  Simms  knew  but  the  fag-end  of  a  noble 
tradition.  Haggart,  moreover,  was  an  expert,  pur- 
suing a  difficult  art,  while  Simms  was  a  bully, 
plundering  his  betters  by  bluff.  Simms  boasted  no 
quality  which  might  be  set  off  against  the  accurate 
delicacy  of  Haggart's  hand.  The  Englishman  grew 
rich  upon  a  rolling  eye  and  a  rusty  pistol.  He  put  on 
his  ''fiercest  manner,"  and  believed  that  the  world 
would  deny  him  nothing.  The  Scot,  rejoicing  in  his 
exquisite  skill,  went  to  work  without  fuss  or  bluster, 
and  added  the  joy  of  artistic  pride  to  his  delight  in 
plunder.  Though  Simms's  manner  seems  the  more 
chivalrous,  it  required  not  one  tithe  of  the  courage 
which  was  Haggart's  necessity.  On  horseback,  with 
the  semblance  of  a  fire-arm,  a  man  may  easily  challenge 
a  coachful  of  women.  It  needs  a  cool  brain  and  a 
sound  courage  to  empty  a  pocket  in  the  watchful 
presence  of  spies  and  policemen.  While  Gentleman 
Harry  chose  a  lonely  road,  or  the  cover  of  night  for 
his  exploits,  the  Switcher  always  worked  by  day,  hustled 
by  a  crowd  of  witnesses. 

Their  hours  of  leisure  furnish  a  yet  more  striking  con- 
trast. Simms  was  a  polished  dandy  delighting  in  his 
clothes,  unhappy  if  he  were  deprived  of  his  bottle  and 
his  game.  Haggart,  on  the  other  hand,  was  before  all 
things  sealed  to  his  profession.  He  would  have  deserted 
the  gayest  masquerade,  had  he  ever  strayed  into  so  light 


A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS         233 

a  frivolity,  for  the  chance  of  lightening  a  pocket.  He 
tasted  but  few  amusements  without  the  limits  of  his 
craft,  and  he  preserved  unto  the  end  a  touch  of  that 
dour  character  which  is  the  heritage  of  his  race.  But, 
withal,  he  was  an  amiable,  decent  body,  who  would 
have  recoiled  in  horror  from  the  drunken  brutality  of 
Gentleman  Harry.  Though  he  bragged  to  George 
Combe  of  his  pitiless  undoing  of  wenches,  he  never 
thrust  a  crab-stick  into  a  woman's  eye,  and  he  was 
incapable  of  rewarding  a  kindness  by  robbery  and 
neglect.  Once — at  Newcastle — he  arrayed  himself  in 
a  smart  white  coat  and  tops,  but  the  splendour  ill 
became  his  red-headed  awkwardness,  and  he  would 
have  stood  aghast  at  the  satin  frocks  and  velvet  waist- 
coats of  him  who  broke  the  hearts  of  Drury  Lane. 
But  if  he  were  gentler  in  his  life,  Haggart  was  pre- 
pared to  fight  with  a  more  reckless  courage  when  his 
trade  demanded  it.  It  was  the  Gentleman's  boast 
that  he  never  shed  the  blood  of  man.  But  when 
David  found  a  turnkey  between  himself  and  freedom, 
he  did  not  hesitate  to  kill,  though  his  remorse  was 
bitter  enough  when  he  neared  the  gallows.  In  brief, 
Haggart  was  not  only  the  better  craftsman,  but  the 
honester  fellow,  and  though  his  hands  were  red  with 
blood,  he  deserved  his  death  far  less  than  did  the  more 
truculent,  less  valiant  Simms.  Each  had  in  his  brain 
the  stuff  whereof  men  of  letters  are  made :  this  is 
their  parallel.  And,  by  way  of  contrast,  while  the 
Switcher  was  an  accomplished  artist.  Gentleman  Harry 
was  a  roystering  braggart. 


DEACON    BRODIE   AND 
CHARLES    PEACE 

I 
DEACON    BRODIE 


DEACON    BRODIE 

AS  William  Brodie  stood  at  the  bar,  on  trial  for 
his  life,  he  seemed  the  gallantest  gentleman  in 
court.  Thither  he  had  been  carried  in  a  chair,  and, 
still  conscious  of  the  honour  paid  him,  he  flashed  a 
condescending  smile  upon  his  judges.  His  step  was 
jaunty  as  ever;  his  superb  attire  well  became  the 
Deacon  of  a  Guild.  His  coat  was  blue,  his  vest  a 
very  garden  of  flowers ;  while  his  satin  breeches  and 
his  stockings  of  white  silk  were  splendid  in  their  sim- 
plicity. Beneath  a  cocked  hat  his  hair  was  fully 
dressed  and  powdered,  and  even  the  prosecuting 
counsel  assailed  him  with  the  respect  due  to  a  man  of 
fashion.  The  fellow's  magnificence  was  thrown  into 
relief  by  the  squalor  of  his  accomplice.  For  George 
Smith  had  neither  the  money  nor  the  taste  to  habit 
himself  as  a  polished  rogue,  and  he  huddled  as  far  from 
his  master  as  he  could  in  the  rags  of  his  mean  estate. 
Nor  from  this  moment  did  Brodie  ever  abate  one  jot 
of  his  dignity.  He  feced  his  accusers  with  a  clear  eye 
and  a  frigid  amiability;  he  listened  to  his  sentence 
with  a  calm  contempt;  he  laughed  complacently  at 
the  sorry  interludes  of  judicial  wit;  and  he  faced  the 


238         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

last  music  with  a  bravery  and  a  cynicism  which  bore 
the  stamp  of  true  greatness. 

It  was  not  until  after  his  crime  that  Brodie's  heroism 
approved  itself.  And  even  then  his  was  a  triumph  not 
of  skill  but  of  character.  Always  a  gentleman  in 
manner  and  conduct,  he  owed  the  success  and  the 
feilure  of  his  life  to  this  one  quality.  When  in  flight 
he  made  for  Flushing  on  board  the  Endeavour^  the 
other  passengers,  who  knew  not  his  name,  straightway 
christened  him  "the  gentleman."  The  enterprise 
itself  would  have  been  impossible  to  one  less  persua- 
sively gifted,  and  its  proper  execution  is  a  tribute  to 
the  lofty  quality  of  his  mind.  There  was  he  in 
London,  a  stranger  and  a  fugitive ;  yet  instead  of 
crawling  furtively  into  a  coal-barge  he  charters  a  ship, 
captures  the  confidence  of  the  captain,  carries  the  other 
passengers  to  Flushing,  when  they  were  bound  for 
Leith,  and  compels  every  one  to  confess  his  charm  ! 
The  thief,  also,  found  him  irresistible  ;  and  while  the 
game  lasted,  the  flash  kens  of  Edinburgh  murmured 
the  Deacon's  name  in  the  hushed  whisper  of  respect. 

His  fine  temperament  disarmed  treachery.  In 
London  he  visited  an  ancient  doxy  of  his  own,  who, 
with  her  bully,  shielded  him  from  justice,  though  be- 
trayal would  have  met  with  an  ample  reward.  Smith, 
if  he  knew  himself  the  superior  craftsman,  trembled  at 
the  Deacon's  nod,  who  thus  swaggered  it  through  life, 
with  none  to  withhold  the  exacted  reverence.  To 
this  same  personal  compulsion  he  owed  his  worldly 
advancement.     Deacon  of  the  Wrights'  Guild  while 


DEACON  BRODIE  239 

still  a  young  man,  he  served  upon  the  Council,  was 
known  for  one  of  Edinburgh's  honoured  citizens,  and 
never  went  abroad  unmarked  by  the  finger  of  respectful 
envy.  He  was  elected  in  1773  a  member  of  the  Cape 
Club,  and  met  at  the  Isle  of  Man  Arms  in  Craig's 
Close  the  wittiest  men  of  his  time  and  town.  Raeburn, 
Runciman,  and  Ferguson  the  poet,  were  of  the  society, 
and  it  was  with  such  men  as  these  that  Brodie  might 
have  wasted  his  vacant  hour.  Indeed,  at  the  very 
moment  that  he  was  cracking  cribs  and  shaking  the 
ivories,  he  was  a  chosen  leader  of  fashion  and  gaiety; 
and  it  was  the  elegance  of  the  "gentleman"  that 
distinguished  him  from  his  fellows. 

The  fop,  indeed,  had  climbed  the  altitudes  of  life  ; 
the  cracksman  still  stumbled  in  the  valleys.  If  he  had 
a  ready  cunning  in  the  planning  of  an  enterprise,  he 
must  needs  bungle  at  the  execution ;  and  had  he  not 
been  associated  with  George  Smith,  a  king  of  scoun- 
drels, there  would  be  few  exploits  to  record.  And  yet 
for  the  craft  of  housebreaker  he  had  one  solid  advan- 
tage :  he  knew  the  locks  and  bolts  of  Edinburgh  as  he 
knew  his  primer — for  had  he  not  fashioned  the  most 
of  them  himself?  But,  his  knowledge  once  imparted 
to  his  accomplices,  he  cheerfully  sank  to  a  menial's 
office.  In  no  job  did  he  play  a  principal's  part :  he  was 
merely  told  off  by  Smith  or  another  to  guard  the 
entrance  and  sound  the  alarm.  When  McKain's  on 
the  Bridge  was  broken,  the  Deacon  found  the  false 
keys  J  but  it  was  Smith  who  carried  off  such  poor 
booty  as  was  found.    And  though  the  master  suggested 


240         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

the  attack  upon  Bruce's  shop,  knowing  full  well  the 
simplicity  of  the  lock,  he  lingered  at  the  Vintner's 
over  a  game  of  hazard,  and  let  the  man  pouch  a  sump- 
tuous booty. 

Even  the  onslaught  upon  the  Excise  Office,  which 
cost  his  life,  was  contrived  with  appalling  clumsi- 
ness. The  Deacon  of  the  Wrights'  Guild,  who  could 
slash  wood  at  his  will,  who  knew  the  artifice  of 
every  lock  in  the  city,  let  his  men  go  to  work  with  no 
better  implements  than  the  stolen  coulter  of  a  plough 
and  a  pair  of  spurs.  And  when  they  tackled  the  ill- 
omened  job,  Brodie  was  of  those  who  brought  failure 
upon  it.  Long  had  they  watched  the  door  of  the 
Excise ;  long  had  they  studied  the  habits  of  its  clerks  j 
so  that  they  went  to  work  in  no  vain  spirit  of  experi- 
ment. Nor  on  the  fatal  night  did  they  force  an 
entrance  until  they  had  dogged  the  porter  to  his  home. 
Smith  and  Brown  ransacked  for  money,  while  Brodie 
and  Andrew  Ainslie  remained  without  to  give  a  neces- 
sary warning.  Whereupon  Ainslie  was  seized  with 
fright,  and  Brodie,  losing  his  head,  called  off  the 
others,  so  that  six  hundred  pounds  were  left,  that 
might  have  been  an  easy  prey.  Smith,  indignant  at 
the  collapse  of  the  long-pondered  design,  laid  the 
blame  upon  his  master,  and  they  swung,  as  Brodie's 
grim  spirit  of  farce  suggested,  for  four  pounds  apiece. 

But  the  humours  of  the  situation  were  all  the 
Deacon's  own.  He  dressed  the  part  in  black;  his 
respectability  grinned  behind  a  vizard;  and  all  the 
while  he  trifled  nonchalantly  with  a  pistol.    Breaking 


DEACON  BRODIE  241 

the  silence  with  snatches  from  The  Beggar's  Opera, 
he  promised  that  all  their  lead  should  turn  to  gold, 
christened  the  coulter  and  the  crow  the  Great  and  Little 
Samuel,  and  then  went  off  to  drink  and  dice  at  the 
Vintner's.  How  could  anger  prevail  against  this  un- 
dying gaiety  ?  And  if  Smith  were  peevish  at  failure, 
he  was  presently  reconciled,  and  prepared  once  more 
to  die  for  his  Deacon. 

Even  after  escape,  the  amateur  is  still  apparent. 
True,  he  managed  the  trip  to  Flushing  with  his  an- 
cient extravagance ;  true,  he  employed  all  the  juggle- 
ries of  the  law  to  prevent  his  surrender  at  Amsterdam. 
But  he  knew  not  the  caution  of  the  born  criminal,  and 
he  was  run  to  earth,  because  he  would  still  write  to 
his  friends  like  a  gentleman.  His  letters,  during  this 
nightmare  of  disaster,  are  perfect  in  their  carelessness 
and  good-fellowship.  In  this  he  demands  news  of  his 
children,  as  becomes  a  father  and  a  citizen,  and  fur- 
nishes a  schedule  of  their  education;  in  that  he  is 
curious  concerning  the  issue  of  a  main,  and  would 
know  whether  his  black  cock  came  off  triumphant. 
Nor,  even  in  flight,  did  he  forget  his  proper  craft, 
but  would  have  his  tools  sent  to  Charleston,  that  in 
America  he  might  resume  the  trade  that  had  made 
him  Deacon. 

But  his  was  the  art  of  conduct,  not  of  guile,  and  he 
deserved  capture  for  his  rare  indifference.  Why,  then, 
with  no  natural  impulsion,  did  he  risk  the  gallows  ? 
Why,  being  no  born  thief,  and  innocent  of  the  thiePs 
cunning,  did  he  associate  with  so  clever  a  scoundrel  as 

Q 


242         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

George   Smith,  with  cowards  craven  as  Brown  and   | 
Ainslie  ?     The  greed  of  gold,  doubtless,  half  persuaded    ' 
him,  but  gold  was  otherwise  attainable,  and  the  motive    I 
was  assuredly  far  more  subtle.     Brodie,  in  fact,  was  of 
a  romantic  turn.    He  was,  so  to  say,  a  glorified  school- 
boy, surfeited  with  penny  dreadfuls.     He  loved  above  ■ 
all  things  to  patter  the  flash,  to  dream  himself  another  ' 
Macheath,  to  trick  himself  out  with  all  the  trappings  i 
of  a  crime  he  was  unfit  to  commit.     It  was  never  the  i 
job  itself  that  attracted  him  :  he  would  always  rather 
throw  the  dice  than  force  a  neighbour's  window.    But 
he  must  needs  have  a  distraction  from  the  respecta- 
bility of  his  life.     Everybody  was  at  his  feet ;  he  was 
Deacon  of  his  Guild,  at  an  age  whereat  his  fellows  ; 
were  striving  to  earn  a  reputable  living ;  his  master-  i 
pieces   were   fashioned,   and   the  wrights'   trade  was  I 
already  a  burden.     To  go  upon  the  cross  seemed  a  ; 
dream  of  freedom,  until  he  snapped  his  fingers  at  the  I 
world,  filled  his  mouth  with  slang,  prepared  his  altbiy  i 
and  furnished  him  a  whole  wardrobe  of  disguises. 

With  a  conscious  irony,  maybe,  he  buried  his  pistols  ; 
beneath  the  domestic  hearth,  jammed  his  dark  lantern  i 
into  the  press,  where  he  kept  his  game-cocks,  and  ; 
determined  to  make  an  inextricable  jumble  of  his 
career.  Drink  is  sometimes  a  sufficient  reaction  , 
against  the  orderliness  of  a  successful  life.  But  drink 
and  cards  failed  with  the  Deacon,  and  at  the  Vintner's  \ 
of  his  frequentation  he  encountered  accomplices  proper  j 
for  his  schemes.  Never  was  so  outrageous  a  protest : 
offered  against  domesticity.     Yet  Brodie's  resolution  ' 


DEACON  BRODIE  243 

was  romantic  after  its  fashion,  and  was  far  more 
respectable  than  the  blackguardism  of  the  French 
Revolution,  which  distracted  housewifely  discontent  a 
year  after  the  Deacon  swung.  Moreover,  it  gave 
occasion  for  his  dandyism  and  his  love  of  display.  If 
in  one  incarnation  he  was  the  complete  gentleman,  in 
another  he  dressed  the  part  of  the  perfect  scoundrel, 
and  the  list  of  his  costumes  would  have  filled  one  of 
his  own  ledgers. 

But,  when  once  the  possibility  of  housebreaking  was 
taken  from  him,  he  returned  to  his  familiar  dignity. 
Being  questioned  by  the  Procurator  Fiscal,  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  regretting  that  other  affairs  demanded 
his  attention.  As  who  should  say  :  it  is  unpardonable 
to  disturb  the  meditations  of  a  gentleman.  He  made 
a  will  bequeathing  his  knowledge  of  law  to  the  magis- 
trates of  Edinburgh,  his  dexterity  in  cards  and  dice 
to  Hamilton  the  chimney-sweeper,  and  all  his  bad 
qualities  to  his  good  friends  and  old  companions.  Brown 
and  Ainslie,  not  doubting,  however,  that  their  own 
will  secure  them  a  "  rope  at  last."  In  prison  it  was 
his  worst  complaint  that,  though  the  nails  of  his  toes 
and  fingers  were  not  quite  so  long  as  Nebuchadnezzar's, 
they  were  long  enough  for  a  mandarin,  and  much 
longer  than  he  found  convenient.  Thus  he  pre 
served  an  untroubled  demeanour  until  the  day  of  his 
death.  Always  polite,  and  even  joyous,  he  met  the 
smallest  indulgence  with  enthusiasm.  When  Smith 
complained  that  a  respite  of  six  weeks  was  of  small 
account,  Brodie  exclaimed,  "George,  what  would  you 


244         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

and  I  give  for  six  weeks  longer  ?  Six  weeks  would  be 
an  age  to  us." 

But  the  day  of  execution  was  the  day  of  his 
supreme  triumph.  As  some  men  are  artists  in  their 
lives,  so  the  Deacon  was  an  artist  in  his  death.  No- 
thing became  him  so  well  as  his  manner  of  leaving 
the  world.  There  is  never  a  blot  upon  this  exquisite 
performance.  It  is  superb,  impeccable  !  Again  his 
dandyism  supported  him,  and  he  played  the  part  of  a 
dying  man  in  a  full  suit  of  black,  his  hair,  as  always, 
dressed  and  powdered.  The  day  before  he  had  been 
jovial  and  sparkling.  He  had  chanted  all  his  flash 
songs,  and  cracked  the  jokes  of  a  man  of  fashion.  But 
he  set  out  for  the  gallows  with  a  firm  step  and  a 
rigorous  demeanour.  He  offered  a  prayer  of  his  own 
composing,  and  "  O  Lord,"  he  said,  "  1  lament  that  I 
know  so  little  of  Thee."  The  patronage  and  the  con- 
fession are  alike  characteristic.  As  he  drew  near  the 
scaffold,  the  model  of  which  he  had  given  to  his  native 
city  a  few  years  since,  he  stepped  with  an  agile  brisk- 
ness ;  he  examined  the  halter,  destined  for  his  neck, 
with  an  impartial  curiosity. 

His  last  pleasantry  was  uttered  as  he  ascended  the  table. 
"  George,"  he  muttered,  "  you  are  first  in  hand,"  and 
thereafter  he  took  farewell  of  his  friends.  Only  one  word 
of  petulance  escaped  his  lips :  when  the  halters  were  found 
too  short,  his  contempt  for  slovenly  workmanship  urged 
him  to  protest,  and  to  demand  a  punishment  for  the 
executioner.  But  again  ascending  the  table,  he  assured 
himself  against  further  mishap  by  arranging  the  rope 


DEACON  BRODIE  245 

with  his  own  hands.  Thus  he  was  turned  off  in  a 
brilliant  assembly.  The  Provost  and  Magistrates,  in 
respect  for  his  dandyism,  were  resplendent  in  their 
robes  of  office,  and  though  the  crowd  of  spectators 
rivalled  that  which  paid  a  tardy  honour  to  Jonathan 
Wild,  no  one  was  hurt  except  the  customary  policeman. 
Such  was  the  dignified  end  of  a  "  double  life."  And 
the  duplicity  is  the  stranger,  because  the  real  Deacon 
was  not  Brodie  the  Cracksman,  but  Brodie  the  Gentle- 
man. So  lightly  did  he  esteem  life  that  he  tossed  it 
from  him  in  a  careless  impulse.  So  little  did  he  fear 
death  that,  "  What  is  hanging  ?  "  he  asked.  "  A  leap 
in  the  dark." 


II 

CHARLES   PEACE 


CHARLES    PEACE 

CHARLES  PEACE,  after  the  habit  of  his  kind, 
was  born  of  scrupulously  honest  parents.  The 
son  of  a  religious  file-maker,  he  owed  to  his  father  not 
only  his  singular  piety  but  his  love  of  edged  tools.  As 
he  never  encountered  an  iron  bar  whose  scission  baffled 
him,  so  there  never  was  a  fire-eating  Methodist  to 
whose  ministrations  he  would  not  turn  a  repentant  ear. 
After  a  handy  portico  and  a  rich  booty  he  loved  nothing 
so  well  as  a  soul-stirring  discourse.  Not  even  his 
precious  fiddle  occupied  a  larger  space  in  his  heart  than 
that  devotion  which  the  ignorant  have  termed  hypo- 
crisy. Wherefore  his  career  was  no  less  suitable  to 
his  ambition  than  his  inglorious  end.  For  he  lived  the 
king  of  housebreakers,  and  he  died  a  warning  to  all 
evildoers,  with  a  prayer  of  intercession  trembling  upon 
his  lips. 

The  hero's  boyhood  is  wrappe'd  in  obscurity.  But 
it  is  certain  that  no  glittering  precocity  brought  dis- 
appointment to  his  maturer  years,  and  he  was  already 
nineteen  when  he  achieved  his  first  imprisonment. 
Even  then  'twas  a  sorry  ofFence,  which  merited  no 
more  than  a  month,  so  that  he  returned  to  freedom  and 


250         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

his  fiddle  with  his  character  unbesmirched.  Serious 
as  ever  in  pious  exercises,  he  gained  a  scanty  living  as 
strolling  musician.  There  was  never  a  tavern  in  Shef- 
field where  the  twang  of  his  violin  was  unheard,  and 
the  skill  wherewith  he  extorted  music  from  a  single 
string  earned  him  the  style  and  title  of  the  modern 
Paganini.  But  such  an  employ  was  too  mean  for  his 
pride,  and  he  soon  got  to  work  again — this  time  with 
a  better  success.  The  mansions  of  Sheffield  were  his 
early  prey,  and  a  rich  plunder  rewarded  his  intrepidity. 
The  design  was  as  masterly  as  its  accomplishment. 
The  grand  style  is  already  discernible.  The  houses 
were  broken  in  quietude  and  good  order.  None  saw 
the  opened  window ;  none  heard  the  step  upon  the  stair ; 
in  truth,  the  victim's  loss  was  his  first  intelligence. 

But  when  the  booty  was  in  the  robber's  own  safe 
keeping,  the  empiricism  of  his  method  was  revealed. 
As  yet  he  knew  no  secret  and  efficient  fence  to  shield 
him  from  detection  j  as  yet  he  had  not  learnt  that  the 
complete  burglar  works  alone.  This  time  he  knew 
two  accomplices — women  both,  and  one  his  own  sister ! 
A  paltry  pair  of  boots  was  the  clue  of  discovery,  and  a 
goodly  stretch  was  the  proper  reward  of  a  clumsy  in- 
discretion. So  for  twenty  years  he  wavered  between 
the  crowbar  and  the  prison-house,  now  perfecting  a 
brilliant  scheme,  now  captured  through  recklessness 
or  drink.  Once  when  a  mistake  at  Manchester  sent 
him  to  the  Hulks,  he  owned  his  failure  was  the  fruit  of 
brandy,  and  after  his  wont  delivered  (from  the  dock) 
a  little  homily  upon  the  benefit  of  sobriety. 


CHARLES  PEACE  251 

Meanwhile  his  art  was  growing  to  perfection.  He 
had  at  last  discovered  that  a  burglary  demands  as  dili- 
gent a  forethought  as  a  campaign  ;  he  had  learnt  that 
no  great  work  is  achieved  by  a  multitude  of  minds. 
Before  his  boat  carried  off  a  goodly  parcel  of  silk  from 
Nottingham,  he  was  known  to  the  neighbourhood  as 
an  enthusiastic  and  skilful  angler.  One  day  he  dangled 
his  line,  the  next  he  sat  peacefully  at  the  same  employ  j 
and  none  suspected  that  the  mild-mannered  fisherman 
had  under  the  cloud  of  night  despatched  a  costly  parcel 
to  London.  Even  the  years  of  imprisonment  were  not 
ill-spent.  Peace  was  still  preparing  the  great  achieve- 
ment of  his  life,  and  he  framed  from  solitary  reflection 
as  well  as  from  his  colleagues  in  crime  many  an  in- 
genious theory  afterwards  fearlessly  translated  into 
practice.  And  when  at  last  he  escaped  the  slavery  of 
the  gaol,  picture-framing  was  the  pursuit  which 
covered  the  sterner  business  of  his  life.  His  depreda- 
tion involved  him  in  no  suspicion ;  his  changing  fea- 
tures rendered  recognition  impossible.  When  the 
exercise  of  his  trade  compelled  him  to  shoot  a  police- 
man at  Whalley  Range,  another  was  sentenced  for  the 
crime  ;  and  had  he  not  encountered  Mrs.  Dyson,  who 
knows  but  he  might  have  practised  his  art  in  pros- 
perous obscurity  until  claimed  by  a  coward's  death  ? 
But  a  stormy  love-passage  with  Mrs.  Dyson  led  to  the 
unworthy  killing  of  the  woman's  husband — a  crime 
imnecessary  and  in  no  sense  consonant  to  the  burglar's 
craft ;  and  Charles  Peace  was  an  outlaw,  with  a  reward 
set  upon  his  head. 


252         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

And  now  came  a  period  of  true  splendour.  Like 
Fielding,  like  Cervantes,  like  Sterne,  Peace  reserved 
his  veritable  masterpiece  for  the  certainty  of  middle-Hfe. 
His  last  two  years  were  nothing  less  than  a  march  of 
triumph.  If  you  remember  his  constant  danger,  you 
will  realise  the  grandeur  of  the  scheme.  From  the 
moment  that  Peace  left  Bannercross  with  Dyson's  blood 
upon  his  hands,  he  was  a  hunted  man.  His  capture 
was  worth  five  hundred  pounds;  his  features  were 
familiar  to  a  hundred  hungry  detectives.  Had  he  been 
less  than  a  man  of  genius,  he  might  have  taken  an  un- 
availing refuge  in  flight  or  concealment.  But,  con- 
tent with  no  safety  unattended  by  affluence,  he  devised 
a  surer  plan ;  he  became  a  householder.  Now,  a  semi-, 
detached  villa  is  an  impregnable  stronghold.  Respect- 
ability oozes  from  the  dusky  mortar  of  its  bricks,  and 
escapes  in  clouds  of  smoke  from  its  soot-grimed  chim- 
neys. No  policeman  ever  detects  a  desperate  ruffian 
in  a  demure  black-coated  gentleman  who  day  after  day 
turns  an  iron  gate  upon  its  rusty  hinge.  And  thus,, 
wrapt  in  a  cloak  of  suburban  piety,  Peace  waged  a 
pitiless  and  eft^ective  war  upon  his  neighbours. 

He  pillaged  Blackheath,  Greenwich,  Peckham,  and 
many  another  home  of  honest  worth,  with  a  noiselessness 
and  a  precision  that  were  the  envy  of  the  whole  family. 
The  unknown  and  intrepid  burglar  was  a  terror  to  all 
the  clerkdom  of  the  City,  and  though  he  was  as  secret 
and  secluded  as  Peace,  the  two  heroes  were  never  iden- 
tified. At  the  time  of  his  true  eminence  he  "  resided  " 
in    Evelina    Road,    Peckham,   and    none   was    more 


CHARLES  PEACE  253 

sensible  than  he  how  well  the  address  became  his  pro- 
vincial refinement.  There  he  installed  himself  with 
his  wife  and  Mrs.  Thompson.  His  drawing-room 
suite  was  the  envy  of  the  neighbourhood ;  his  pony- 
trap  proclaimed  him  a  man  of  substance ;  his  gentle 
manners  won  the  respect  of  all  Peckham.  Hither  he 
would  invite  his  friends  to  such  entertainments  as  the 
suburb  expected.  His  musical  evenings  were  recorded 
in  the  local  paper,  while  on  Sundays  he  chanted  the 
songs  of  Zion  with  a  zeal  which  Clapham  herself  might 
envy. 

But  the  house  in  Evelina  Road  was  no  mere  haunt 
of  quiet  gentility.  It  was  chosen  with  admirable 
forethought  and  with  a  stern  eye  upon  the  necessities 
of  business.  Beyond  the  garden  wall  frowned  a  rail- 
way embankment,  which  enabled  the  cracksman  to 
escape  from  his  house  without  opening  the  front  door. 
By  the  same  embankment  he  might,  if  he  chose, 
convey  the  trophies  of  the  night's  work;  and  what 
mattered  it  if  the  windows  rattled  to  the  passing  train  ? 
At  least  a  cloud  of  suspicion  was  dispelled.  Here  he 
lived  for  two  years,  with  naught  to  disturb  his  tran- 
quility save  Mrs.  Thompson's  taste  for  drink.  The 
hours  of  darkness  were  spent  in  laborious  activity,  the 
open  day  brought  its  own  distractions.  There  was 
always  Bow  Street  wherein  to  loaf,  and  the  study  of 
the  criminal  law  lost  none  of  its  excitement  from  the 
reward  offered  outside  for  the  bald-headed  fanatic  who 
sat  placidly  within.  And  the  love  of  music  was  Peace's 
constant  solace.     Whatever  treasures  he  might  discard 


254         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

in  a  hurried  flight,  he  never  left  a  fiddle  behind,  and  so 
vast  became  his  pilfered  collection  that  he  had  to 
borrovir  an  empty  room  in  a  friend's  house  for  its  better 
disposal. 

Moreover,  he  had  a  fervent  pride  in  his  craft ;  and  you 
might  deduce  from  his  performance  the  vjrhole  theory  and 
practice  of  burglary.  He  w^orked  ever  w^ithout  accom- 
plices. He  kneur  neither  the  professional  thief  nor 
his  lingo ;  and  no  association  with  gaol-birds  involved 
him  in  the  risk  of  treachery  and  betrayal.  His  single 
colleague  was  a  friendly  fence,  and  not  even  at  the 
gallow's  foot  would  he  surrender  this  fence's  name. 
But  his  master  quality  was  a  constructive  imagination. 
Accident  never  marred  his  design.  He  would  visit  the 
house  of  his  breaking  until  he  understood  its  ground- 
plan,  and  was  familiar  with  its  inhabitants.  This 
demanded  an  amazing  circumspection,  but  Peace  was 
as  stealthy  as  a  cat,  and  he  would  keep  silent  vigil  for 
hours  rather  than  fail  from  a  too  instant  anxiety. 
Having  marked  the  place  of  his  entry,  and  having 
chosen  an  appropriate  hour,  he  would  prevent  the 
egress  of  his  enemies  by  screwing  up  the  doors.  He 
then  secured  the  room  wherein  he  worked,  and,  the 
job  finished,  he  slung  himself  into  the  night  by  the 
window,  so  that,  ere  an  alarm  could  be  raised,  his 
pony-trap  had  carried  the  booty  to  Evelina  Road. 

Such  was  the  outline  of  his  plan ;  but,  being  no 
pedant,  he  varied  it  at  will :  nor  was  he  likely  to  court 
defeat  through  lack  of  resource.  Accomplished  as  he 
was  in  his  proper  business,  he  was  equally  alert  to  meet 


CHARLES  PEACE  255 

the  accompanying  risks.  He  had  brought  the  art 
of  cozening  strange  dogs  to  perfection ;  and  for  the 
exigence  of  escape,  his  physical  equipment  was  com- 
plete. He  would  resist  capture  with  unparalleled 
determination,  and  though  he  shuddered  at  the  shedding 
of  blood,  he  never  hesitated  when  necessity  bade  him 
pull  the  trigger.  Moreover,  there  was  no  space  into 
which  he  would  not  squeeze  his  body,  and  the  iron 
bars  were  not  yet  devised  through  which  he  could  not 
make  an  exit.  Once — it  was  at  Nottingham — he 
was  surprised  by  an  inquisitive  detective  who  de- 
manded his  name  and  trade.  "I  am  a  hawker  of 
spectacles,"  replied  Peace,  "  and  my  licence  is  down- 
stairs. Wait  two  minutes  and  I'll  show  it  you."  The 
detective  never  saw  him  again.  Six  inches  only  sepa- 
rated the  bars  of  the  window,  but  Peace  asked  no 
more,  and  thus  silently  he  won  his  freedom.  True, 
his  most  daring  feat — the  leap  from  the  train — resulted 
not  in  liberty,  but  in  a  broken  head.  But  he  essayed 
a  task  too  high  even  for  his  endeavour,  and,  despite  his 
manacles,  at  least  he  left  his  boot  in  the  astonished 
warder's  grip. 

No  less  remarkable  than  his  skill  and  daring  were 
his  means  of  evasion.  Even  without  a  formal  disguise 
he  could  elude  pursuit.  At  an  instant's  warning,  his 
loose,  plastic  features  would  assume  another  shape  j  out 
shot  his  lower  jaw,  and,  as  if  by  magic,  the  blood  flew 
into  his  fiice  until  you  might  take  him  for  a  mulatto. 
Or,  if  he  chose,  he  would  strap  his  arm  to  his  side,, 
and  let  the  police  be  baffled  by  a  wooden  mechanism^ 


256        A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

decently  finished  with  a  hook.  Thus  he  roamed 
London  up  and  down  unsuspected,  and  even  after  his 
last  failure  at  Blackheath,  none  would  have  discovered 
Charles  Peace  in  John  Ward,  the  Single-Handed 
Burglar,  had  not  woman's  treachery  prompted  detec- 
tion. Indeed,  he  was  an  epitome  of  his  craft,  the 
Complete  Burglar  made  manifest. 

Not  only  did  he  plan  his  victories  with  previous 
ingenuity,  but  he  sacrificed  to  his  success  both  taste  and 
sentiment.  His  dress  was  always  of  the  most  sombre ; 
his  only  wear  was  the  decent  black  of  everyday  godliness. 
The  least  spice  of  dandyism  might  have  distinguished 
him  from  his  fellows,  and  Peace's  whole  vanity  lay  in  his 
craft.  Nor  did  the  paltry  sentiment  of  friendship  deter 
him  from  his  just  course.  When  the  panic  aroused  by 
the  silent  burglar  was  uncontrolled,  a  neighbour 
consulted  Peace  concerning  the  safety  of  his  house. 
The  robber,  having  duly  noted  the  villa's  imperfections, 
and  having  discovered  the  hiding-place  of  jewellery  and 
plate,  complacently  rifled  it  the  next  night.  Though 
his  self-esteem  sustained  a  shock,  though  henceforth 
his  friend  thought  meanly  of  his  judgment,  he  was 
rewarded  with  the  solid  pudding  of  plunder,  and  the 
world  whispered  of  the  mysterious  marauder  with  a  yet 
colder  horror.  In  truth,  the  large  simplicity  and 
solitude  of  his  style  sets  him  among  the  Classics,  and 
though  others  have  surpassed  him  at  single  points  of 
the  game,  he  practised  the  art  with  such  universal 
breadth  and  courage  as  were  then  a  revolution,  and  are 
still  unsurpassed. 


CHARLES  PEACE 


257 


But  the  burglar  ever  fights  an  unequal  battle.  One 
felse  step,  and  defeat  o'erwhelms  him.  For  two  years 
had  John  Ward  intimidated  the  middle-class  seclusion 
of  South  London  ;  for  two  years  had  he  hidden  from  a 
curious  world  the  ugly,  furrowed  visage  of  Charles 
Peace.  The  bald  head,  the  broad-rimmed  spectacles, 
the  squat,  thick  figure — he  stood  but  five  feet  four  in 
his  stockings,  and  adds  yet  another  to  the  list  of  little- 
great  men — should  have  ensured  detection,  but  the  quick 
change  and  the  persuasive  gesture  were  omnipotent, 
and  until  the  autumn  of  1878  Peace  was  comfortably 
at  large.  And  then  an  encounter  at  Blackheath  put 
him  within  the  clutch  of  justice.  His  revolver  failed 
in  its  duty,  and,  vaHant  as  he  was,  at  last  he  met  his 
match.  In  prison  he  was  alternately  insolent  and 
aggrieved.  He  blustered  for  justice,  proclaimed  him- 
self the  victim  of  sudden  temptation,  and  insisted  that 
his  intention  had  been  ever  innocent. 

But,  none  the  less,  he  was  sentenced  to  a  lifer,  and, 
the  mask  of  John  Ward  being  torn  from  him,  he  was 
sent  to  Sheffield  to  stand  his  trial  as  Charles  Peace. 
The  leap  from  the  train  is  already  recorded ;  and  at  his 
last  appearance  in  the  dock  he  rolled  upon  the  floor,  a 
petulant  and  broken  man.  When  once  the  last  doom 
was  pronounced,  he  forgot  both-  fiddle  and  crowbar ; 
he  surrendered  himself  to  those  exercises  of  piety 
from  which  he  had  never  wavered.  The  foolish  have 
denounced  him  for  a  hypocrite,  not  knowing  that  the 
artist  may  have  a  life  apart  from  his  art,  and  that  to 
Peace  religion  was  an  essential  pursuit.     So  he  died, 

R 


258         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

having  released  from  an  unjust  sentence  the  poor 
wretch  who  at  Whalley  Range  had  suffered  for  his 
crime,  and  offering  up  a  consolatory  prayer  for  all 
mankind.  In  truth,  there  was  no  enemy  for  whom  he 
did  not  intercede.  He  prayed  for  his  gaolers,  for  his 
executioner,  for  the  Ordinary,  for  his  wife,  for  Mrs. 
Thompson,  his  drunken  doxy,  and  he  went  to  his 
death  with  the  sure  step  of  one  who,  having  done  his 
duty,  is  reconciled  with  the  world.  The  mob  testified 
its  affectionate  admiration  by  dubbing  him  "  Charley," 
and  remembered  with  effusion  his  last  grim  pleasantry. 
"  What  is  the  scaffold "  ?  he  asked  with  sublime 
earnestness.  And  the  answer  came  quick  and  sancti- 
monious :  "  A  short  cut  to  Heaven  "  ! 


Ill 
A    PARALLEL 

(DEACON   BRODIE   AND   CHARLES 
PEACE) 


A    PARALLEL 

(DEACON  BRODIE  AND   CHARLES   PEACE) 

NOT  a  parallel,  but  a  contrast,  since  at  all  points 
Peace  is  Brodie's  antithesis.  The  one  is  the 
austerest  of  Classics,  caring  only  for  the  ultimate  per- 
fection of  his  work.  The  other  is  the  gayest  of 
Romantics,  happiest  when  by  the  way  he  produces  a 
glittering  effect,  or  dazzles  the  ear  by  a  vain  im- 
pertinence. Now,  it  is  by  thievery  that  Peace  reached 
magnificence.  A  natural  aptitude  drove  him  from  the 
fiddle  to  the  centre-bit.  He  did  but  rob,  because  genius 
followed  the  impulse.  He  had  studied  the  remotest 
details  of  his  business ;  he  was  sternly  professional  in  the 
conduct  of  his  life,  and,  as  became  an  old  gaol-bird,  there 
was  no  antic  of  the  policeman  wherewith  he  was  not 
familiar.  Moreover,  not  only  had  he  reduced  house- 
breaking to  a  science,  but,  berng  ostensibly  nothing 
better  than  a  picture-frame  maker,  he  had  invented 
an  incomparable  set  of  tools  wherewith  to  enter  and 
evade  his  neighbour's  house.  Brodie,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  a  thief  for  distraction.  His  method  was 
as  slovenly  as  ignorance  could  make  it.     Though  by 


262         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

trade  a  wright,  and  therefore  a  master  of  all  the  arts  of 
joinery,  he  was  so  deficient  in  seriousness  that  he  stole 
a  coulter  wherewith  to  batter  the  walls  of  the  Excise 
Office.  While  Peace  fought  the  battle  in  solitude, 
Brodie  was  not  only  attended  by  a  gang,  but  listened 
to  the  command  of  his  subordinates,  and  was  never 
permitted  to  perform  a  more  intricate  duty  than  the 
sounding  of  the  alarm.  And  yet  here  is  the  ironical 
contrast.  Peace,  the  professional  thief,  despised  his 
brothers,  and  was  never  heard  to  patter  a  word  of  flash. 
Brodie,  the  amateur,  courted  the  society  of  all  cross- 
coves,  and  would  rather  express  himself  in  Pedlar's 
French  than  in  his  choicest  Scots.  While  the  English- 
man scraped  Tate  and  Brady  from  a  one-stringed 
fiddle,  the  Scot  limped  a  chaunt  from  The  Beggar's 
Opera^  and  thought  himself  a  devil  of  a  fellow.  The 
one  was  a  man  about  town  masquerading  as  a  thief; 
the  other  the  most  serious  among  housebreakers,  sing- 
ing psalms  in  all  good  faith. 

But  if  Peace  was  incomparably  the  better  craftsman, 
Brodie  was  the  prettier  gentleman.  Peace  would  not 
have  permitted  Brodie  to  drive  his  pony-trap  the 
length  of  Evelina  Road.  But  Brodie,  in  revenge, 
would  have  cut  Peace  had  he  met  him  in  the  Corn- 
market.  The  one  was  a  sombre  savage,  the  other  a 
jovial  comrade,  and  it  was  a  witty  freak  of  fortune 
that  impelled  both  to  follow  the  same  trade.  And 
thus  you  arrive  at  another  point  of  difference.  The 
Englishman  had  no  intelligence  of  life's  amenity.  He 
knew  naught  of  costume :  clothes  were  the  limit  of 


A  PARALLEL  263 

his  ambition.  Dressed  always  for  work,  he  was  like 
the  caterpillar  which  assumes  the  green  of  the  leaf, 
wherein  it  hides :  he  wore  only  such  duds  as  should 
attract  the  smallest  notice,  and  separate  him  as  far  as 
might  be  from  his  business.  But  the  Scot  was  as  fine 
a  dandy  as  ever  took  (haphazard)  to  the  cracking  of 
kens.  If  his  refinement  ""permitted  no  excess  of  splen- 
dour, he  went  ever  gloriously  and  appropriately  ap- 
parelled. He  was  well-mannered,  cultured,  with  scarce 
a  touch  of  provincialism  to  mar  his  gay  demeanour  : 
whereas  Peace  knew  little  enough  outside  the  practice 
of  burglary,  and  the  proper  handling  of  the  revolver. 

Our  Charles,  for  example,  could  neither  spell  nor 
write  J  he  dissembled  his  low  origin  with  the  utmost 
difficulty,  and  at  the  best  was  plastered  over  (when  not 
at  work)  with  the  parochialism  of  the  suburbs.  So  far 
the  contrast  is  complete  ;  and  even  in  their  similarities 
there  is  an  evident  difference.  Each  led  a  double  life  j 
but  while  Brodie  was  most  himself  among  his  own  kind, 
the  real  Peace  was  to  be  found  not  fiddle-scraping  in 
Evelina  Road  but  marking  down  policemen  in  the 
dusky  byways  of  Blackheath.  Brodie's  grandeur  was 
natural  to  him ;  Peace's  respectability,  so  far  as  it  tran- 
scended the  man's  origin,  was  a  cloak  of  villainy. 

Each,  again,  was  an  inventor,  and  while  the  more 
innocent  Brodie  designed  a  gallows,  the  more  hardened 
Peace  would  have  gained  notoriety  by  the  raising  of 
wrecks  and  the  patronage  of  Mr.  Plimsoll.  And  since 
both  preserved  a  certain  courage  to  the  end,  since  both 
died  on  the  scaffold  as  becomes  a  man,  the  contrast  is 


264         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

once  more  characteristic.  Brodie's  cynicism  is  a  fine 
foil  to  the  piety  of  Peace ;  and  while  each  end  was 
natural  after  its  own  fashion,  there  is  none  who  will 
deny  to  the  Scot  the  finer  sense  of  fitness.  Nor  did 
any  step  in  their  career  explain  more  clearly  the  differ- 
ence in  their  temperament  than  their  definitions  of  the 
gallows.  For  Peace  it  is  **  a  short  cut  to  Heaven "  ; 
for  Brodie  it  is  "a  leap  in  the  dark."  Again  the  Scot 
has  the  advantage.  Again  you  reflect  that,  if  Peace 
is  the  most  accomplished  Classic  among  the  house- 
breakers, the  Deacon  is  the  merriest  companion  who 
ever  climbed  the  gallows  by  the  shoulders  of  the  in- 
comparable Macheath. 


THE    MAN    IN   THE    GREY   SUIT 


r 


THE  MAN   IN   THE    GREY  SUIT 

THE  Abbe  Bruneau,  who  gave  his  shaven  head 
in  atonement  for  unnumbered  crimes,  was  a 
finished  exponent  of  duplicity.  In  the  eye  of  day 
and  of  Entrammes  he  shone  a  miracle  of  well-doing  ; 
by  night  he  prowled  in  the  secret  places  of  Laval. 
The  world  watched  him,  habited  in  the  decent  black 
of  his  calling;  no  sooner  was  he  beyond  sight  of 
his  parish  than  his  valise  was  opened,  and  he  arrayed 
himself — under  the  hedge,  no  doubt — in  a  suit  of 
jaunty  grey.  The  pleasures  for  which  he  sacrificed 
the  lives  of  others  and  his  own  were  squalid  enough, 
but  they  were  the  best  a  provincial  brain  might 
imagine  ;  and  he  sinned  the  sins  of  a  hedge  priest  with 
a  courage  and  effrontery  which  his  brethren  may  well 
envy.  Indeed,  the  Man  in  the  Grey  Suit  will  be  sent 
down  the  ages  with  a  grimmer  scandal,  if  with  a 
staler  mystery,  than  the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask. 

He  was  born  of  parents  who  were  certainly  poor, 
and  possibly  honest,  at  Asse-le-Berenger.  He  counted 
a  dozen  Chouans  among  his  ancestry,  and  brigandage 
swam  in  his  blood.  Even  his  childhood  was  crimson 
with  crimes,  which  the  quick  memory  of  the  country- 


268         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

side  long  ago  lost  in  the  pride  of  having  bred  a  priest. 
He  stained  his  first  cure  of  souls  with  the  poor,  sad  sin 
of  arson,  which  the  bishop,  fearful  of  scandal  and  loth 
to  check  a  promising  career,  condoned  with  a  suitable 
advancement.  At  Entrammes,  his  next  benefice,  he 
entered  into  his  full  inheritance  of  villainy,  and  here  it 
was — despite  his  own  protest — that  he  devised  the  grey 
suit  which  brought  him  ruin  and  immortality.  To 
the  wild,  hilarious  dissipation  of  Laval,  the  nearest 
town,  he  fell  an  immediate  and  unresisting  prey. 
Think  of  the  glittering  lamps,  the  sparkling  taverns, 
the  bright-eyed  women,  the  manifold  fascinations, 
which  are  the  character  and  delight  of  this  forgotten 
city  !  Why,  if  the  Abbe  Bruneau  doled  out  comfort 
and  absolution  at  Entrammes — why  should  he  not 
enjoy  at  Laval  the  wilder  joys  of  the  flesh  ?  Lack  of 
money  was  the  only  hindrance,  since  our  priest  was 
not  of  those  who  could  pursue  bonnes  fortunes;  ever  he 
sighed  for  *'  booze  and  the  blowens,"  but  "  booze  and 
the  blowens "  he  could  only  purchase  with  the 
sovereigns  his  honest  calling  denied  him.  There  was 
no  resource  but  thievery  and  embezzlement,  sins 
which  led  sometimes  to  falsehood  or  incendiarism,  and 
at  a  pinch  to  the  graver  enterprise  of  murder.  But 
Bruneau  was  not  one  to  boggle  at  trifles.  Women  he 
would  encounter — young  or  old,  dark  or  fair,  ugly  or 
beautiful,  it  was  all  one  to  him — and  the  fools  who 
withheld  him  riches  must  be  punished  for  their  niggard 
hand.  For  a  while  a  theft  here  and  there,  a  cunning 
extortion  of  money  upon  the  promise  of  good  works, 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  GREY  SUIT     269 

sufficed  for  his  necessities,  but  still  he  hungered  for  a 
coupy  and  patiently  he  devised  and  watched  his  oppor- 
tunity. 

Meanwhile  his  cunning  protected  him,  and  even  if 
the  gaze  of  suspicion  fell  upon  him  he  contrived  his 
orgies  with  so  neat  a  discretion  that  the  Church,  which 
is  not  wont  to  expose  her  malefactors,  preserved  a  timid 
and  an  innocent  silence.  The  Abbe  disappeared  with 
a  commendable  constancy,  and  with  that  just  sense  of 
secrecy  which  should  compel  even  an  archiepiscopal 
admiration.  He  was  not  of  those  who  would  drag  his 
cloth  through  the  mire.  Not  until  the  darkness  he 
loved  so  fervently  covered  the  earth  would  he  escape 
from  the  dull  respectability  of  Entrammes,  nor  did  he 
ever  thus  escape  unaccompanied  by  his  famous  valise. 
The  grey  suit  was  an  effectual  disguise  to  his  calling, 
and  so  jealous  was  he  of  the  Church's  honour  that  he 
never — unless  in  his  cups — disclosed  his  tonsure.  One 
of  his  innumerable  loves  confessed  in  the  witness-box 
that  Bruneau  always  retained  his  hat  in  the  glare  of 
the  cafe,  protesting  that  a  headache  rendered  him 
fatally  susceptible  to  draught ;  and  such  was  his 
thoughtful  punctilio  that  even  in  the  comparative 
solitude  of  a  guilty  bed-chamber  he  covered  his  shorn 
locks  with  a  nightcap. 

And  while  his  conduct  at  Laval  was  unimpeachable, 
he  always  proved  a  nice  susceptibility  in  his  return. 
A  cab  carried  him  within  a  discreet  distance  of  his 
home,  whence,  having  exchanged  the  grey  for  the 
more  sober  black,  he  would  tramp  on  foot,  and  thus- 


270         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

creep  in  tranquil  and  unobserved.  But  simple  as  it 
is  to  enjoy,  enjoyment  must  still  be  purchased,  and 
the  Abbe  was  never  guilty  of  a  meanness.  The  less 
guilty  scheme  was  speedily  staled,  and  then  it  was  that 
the  Abbe  bethought  him  of  murder. 

His  first  victim  was  the  widow  Bourdais,  who  pur- 
sued the  honest  calling  of  a  florist  at  Laval.  Already 
the  curate  was  on  those  terms  of  intimacy  which 
unite  the  robber  with  the  robbed;  for  some  months 
earlier  he  had  imposed  a  forced  loan  of  sixty  francs 
upon  his  victim.  But  on  the  15th  of  July  1893, 
he  left  Entrammes,  resolved  upon  a  serious  mea- 
sure. The  black  valise  was  in  his  hand,  as  he  set 
forth  upon  the  arid,  windy  road.  Before  he  reached 
Laval  he  had  made  the  accustomed  transformation, 
and  it  was  no  priest,  but  a  layman,  doucely  habited  in 
grey,  that  awaited  Mme.  Bourdais'  return  from  the 
flower-market.  He  entered  the  shop  with  the  coolness 
of  a  friend,  and  retreated  to  the  door  of  the  parlour 
when  two  girls  came  to  make  a  purchase.  No  sooner 
had  the  widow  joined  him  than  he  cut  her  throat,  and, 
with  the  ferocity  of  the  beast  who  loves  blood  as  well 
as  plunder,  inflicted  some  forty  wounds  upon  her 
withered  frame.  His  escape  was  simple  and  dignified  j 
he  called  the  cabman,  who  knew  him  well,  and  who 
knew,  moreover,  what  was  required  of  him  ;  and  the 
priest  was  snugly  in  bed,  though  perhaps  exhausted 
with  blood  and  pleasure,  when  the  news  of  the  murder 
followed  him  to  his  village. 

Next  day  the  crime  was  common  gossip,  and  the 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  GREY  SUIT     271 

Abbe's  friends  took  counsel  with  him.  One  there  was 
astonished  that  the  culprit  remained  undiscovered.  *'  But 
why  should  you  marvel  ?  "  said  Brimeau.  "  I  could 
kill  you  and  your  wife  at  your  own  chimney-corner 
without  a  soul  knowing.  Had  I  taken  to  evil  courses 
instead  of  to  good  I  should  have  been  a  terrible 
assassin."  There  is  a  touch  of  the  pride  which  De 
Quincey  attributes  to  WllJiams  in  this  boastfulness, 
and  throughout  the  paraller  is  irresistible.  Williams, 
however,  was  the  better  dandy ;  he  put  on  a  dress-coat 
and  patent-leather  pumps  because  the  dignity  of  his 
work  demanded  a  fitting  costume.  And  Bruneau  wore 
the  grey  suit  not  without  a  hope  of  disguise.  But  yet 
you  like  to  think  that  the  Abbe  looked  complacently 
upon  his  valise,  and  had  forethought  for  the  cut  of  his 
professional  coat ;  and  if  he  be  not  in  the  first  flight 
of  artistry,  remember  his  provincial  upbringing,  and 
furnish  the  proper  excuse. 

Meanwhile,  the  scandal  of  the  murdered  widow 
passed  into  forgetfulness,  and  the  Abbe  was  still  im- 
poverished. Already  he  had  robbed  his  vicar,  and 
the  suspicion  of  the  Abbe  Fricot  led  on  to  the 
final  and  the  detected  crime.  Now  Fricot  had 
noted  the  loss  of  money  and  of  bonds,  and  though  he 
refrained  from  exposure  he  had  confessed  to  a  know- 
ledge of  the  criminal.  M.  Bruneau  was  naturally 
sensitive  to  suspicion,  and  he  determined  upon  the 
immediate  removal  of  this  danger  to  his  peace.  On 
January  2,  1894,  M.  Fricot  returned  to  supper  after 
administering  the  extreme  unction  to  a  parishioner. 


272  A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

While  the  meal  was  preparing,  he  went  into  his  garden 
in  sabots  and  bareheaded,  and  never  again  was  seen 
alive.  The  supper  cooled,  the  vicar  was  still  absent ; 
the  murderer,  hungry  with  his  toil,  ate  not  only  his 
own,  but  his  victim's  share  of  the  food,  grimly  hinting 
that  Fricot  would  not  come  back.  Suicide  was  dreamed 
of,  murder  hinted  ;  up  and  down  the  village  was  the 
search  made,  and  none  was  more  zealous  than  the 
distressed  curate. 

At  last  a  peasant  discovered  some  blocks  of  wood 
in  the  well,  and  before  long  blood-stains  revealed 
themselves  on  the  masonry.  Speedily  was  the  body 
recovered,  disfigured  and  battered  beyond  recogni- 
tion, and  the  voice  of  the  village  went  up  in  denun- 
ciation of  the  Abbe  Bruneau.  Immunity  had  made 
the  culprit  callous,  and  in  a  few  hours  suspicion 
became  certainty.  A  bleeding  nose  was  the  lame 
explanation  given  for  the  stains  which  were  on  his 
clothes,  on  the  table,  on  the  keys  of  his  harmonium. 
A  quaint  and  characteristic  folly  was  it  that  drove  the 
murderer  straight  to  the  solace  of  his  religion.  You 
picture  him,  hot  and  red-handed  from  murder, 
soothing  his  battered  conscience  with  some  devilish 
Requiem  for  the  unshrived  soul  he  had  just  parted 
from  its  broken  body,  and  leaving  upon  the  har- 
monium the  ineradicable  traces  of  his  guilt.  Thus 
he  lived,  poised  between  murder  and  the  Church, 
spending  upon  the  vulgar  dissipation  of  a  Breton 
village  the  blood  and  money  of  his  foolish  victims. 
But   for   him  'Mes  tavernes  et   les   fiUes"   of   Laval 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  GREY  SUIT     273  I 

meant    a  veritable    paradise,  and   his   sojourn   in   the 

country  is  proof  enough  of  a  limited  cunning.     Had 

he  been  more  richly  endowed,  Paris    had   been    the  j 

theatre  of  his  crimes.   As  it  is,  he  goes  down  to  posterity  1 

as  the  Man  in  the  Grey  Suit,  and  the  best  friend  the  j 

cabmen  of  Laval  ever  knew.     Them,  indeed,  he  left  I 

inconsolable. 


MONSIEUR   L'ABBE 


MONSIEUR   L'ABBE 

THE  childhood  of  the  Abbe  Rosselot  is  as  secret 
as  his  origin,  and  no  man  may  know  whether 
Belfort  or  Bavaria  smiled  upon  his  innocence.  A  like 
mystery  enshrouds  his  early  manhood,  and  the  malice 
of  his  foes,  who  are  legion,  denounces  him  for  a  Jesuit 
of  Innsbruck.  But  since  he  has  lived  within  the  eye 
of  the  world  his  villainies  have  been  revealed  as  clearly 
as  his  attainments,  and  history  provides  him  no  other 
rival  in  the  corruption  of  youth  than  the  infamous 
Thwackum. 

It  is  not  every  scholar's  ambition  to  teach  the  ele- 
ments, and  Rosselot  adopted  his  modest  calling  as  a 
cloak  of  crime.  No  sooner  was  he  installed  in  a 
mansion  than  he  became  the  mansion's  master,  and 
henceforth  he  ruled  his  employer's  domain  with  the 
tyrannical  severity  of  a  Grand  Inquisitor.  His  soul 
wrapped  in  the  triple  brass  of  arrogance,  he  even  dared 
to  lay  his  hands  upon  food  before  his  betters  were 
served ;  and  presently,  emboldened  by  success,  he 
would  order  the  dinners,  reproach  the  cook  with  a  too 
lavish  use  of  condiments,  and  descend  with  insolent 
expostulation  into  the  kitchen.     In  a  week  he   had 


278         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

opened  the  cupboards  upon  a  dozen  skeletons,  and 
made  them  rattle  their  rickety  bones  up  and  down  the 
draughty  staircases,  until  the  inmates  shivered  with 
horror  and  the  terrified  neighbours  fled  the  haunted 
mansion  as  a  lazar-house.  Once  in  possession  of  a 
family  secret,  he  felt  himself  secure,  and  henceforth  he 
was  free  to  browbeat  his  employer  and  to  flog  his  pupil 
to  the  satisfaction  of  his  waspish  nature.  Moreover, 
he  was  endowed  with  all  the  insight  and  effrontery  of 
a  trained  interviewer.  So  sedulous  was  he  in  his 
search  after  the  truth,  that  neither  man  nor  woman 
could  deny  him  confidence.  And,  as  vinegar  flowed 
in  his  veins  for  blood,  it  was  his  merry  sport  to  set  wife 
against  husband  and  children  against  father.  Not  even 
were  the  servants  safe  from  his  watchful  inquiry,  and 
housemaids  and  governesses  aHke  entrusted  their  hopes 
and  fears  to  his  malicious  keeping.  And  when  the 
house  had  retired  to  rest,  with  what  a  sinister  dehght 
did  he  chuckle  over  the  frailties  and  infamies,  a  guilty 
knowledge  of  which  he  had  dragged  from  many  an 
unwilling  sinner  !  To  oust  him,  when  installed,  was 
a  plain  impossibility,  for  this  wringer  of  hearts  was 
only  too  glib  in  the  surrender  of  another's  scandal; 
and  as  he  accepted  the  last  scurrility  with  Christian 
resignation,  his  unfortunate  employer  could  but 
strengthen  his  vocabulary  and  patiently  endure  the 
presence  of  this  smiling,  demoniacal  tutor. 

But  a  too  villainous  curiosity  was  not  the  Abbe's 
capital  sin.  Not  only  did  he  entertain  his  leisure  with 
wrecking  the  happiness  of  a  united  family,  but  he  was 


MONSIEUR  UABBt  279 

an  enemy  open  and  declared  of  France.  It  was  his 
amiable  pastime  at  the  dinner-table,  when  he  had  first 
helped  himself  to  such  delicacies  as  tempted  his  dainty 
palate,  to  pronounce  a  pompous  eulogy  upon  the  Ger- 
man Emperor.  France,  he  would  say  with  an  exultant 
smile,  is  a  pays  pourri^  which  exists  merely  to  be  the 
football  of  Prussia.  She  has  but  one  hope  of  salvation 
— still  the  monster  speaks — and  that  is  to  fall  into  the 
benign  occupation  of  a  vigorous  race.  Once  upon  a 
time — the  infamy  is  scarce  credible — he  was  conduct- 
ing his  young  charges  past  a  town-hall,  over  the  lintel 
of  whose  door  glittered  those  proud  initials  "  R.  F." 
"  What  do  they  stand  for  ?  "  asked  this  demon  Barlow. 
And  when  the  patriotic  Tommy  hesitated  for  an 
answer,  the  preceptor  exclaimed  with  ineffable  con- 
tempt, *'  Race  de  fous  "  !  It  is  no  wonder,  then,  that 
this  foe  of  his  fatherland  feared  to  receive  a  letter 
openly  addressed;  rather  he  would  slink  out  under 
cover  of  night  and  seek  his  correspondence  at  the 
paste  restante^  like  a  guilty  lover  or  a  British  tourist. 

The  Chateau  de  Presles  was  built  for  his  reception. 
It  was  haunted  by  a  secret,  which  none  dare  murmur 
in  the  remotest  garret.  There  was  no  more  than  a 
whisper  of  murder  in  the  air,  but  the  Marquis  shud- 
dered when  his  wife's  eye  fr6wned  upon  him.  True, 
the  miserable  Menaldo  had  disappeared  from  his  semi- 
nary ten  years  since,  but  threats  of  disclosure  were 
uttered  continually,  and  respectability  might  only  be 
purchased  by  a  profound  silence.  Here  was  the  Abbe's 
most  splendid  opportunity,  and  he  seized  it  with  all 


28o         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

the  eagerness  of  a  greedy  temperament.  The  Mar- 
quise, a  wealthy  peasant,  who  was  rather  at  home  on 
the  wild  hill-side  than  in  her  stately  castle,  became  an 
instant  prey  to  his  devilish  intrigue.  The  governess, 
an  antic  old  maid  of  fifty-seven,  whose  conversation 
was  designed  to  bring  a  blush  to  the  cheek  of  the 
most  hardened  dragoon,  was  immediately  on  terms  of 
so  frank  an  intimacy  that  she  flung  bread  pellets 
at  him  across  the  table,  and  joyously  proposed,  if 
we  may  believe  the  priest  on  his  oath,  to  set  up 
housekeeping  with  him,  that  they  might  save  expense. 
Two  high-spirited  boys  were  always  at  hand  to  en- 
courage his  taste  for  flogging,  and  had  it  not  been  for 
the  Marquis,  the  Abbe's  cup  would  have  been  full  to 
overflowing.  But  the  Marquis  loved  not  the  lean, 
ogling  instructor  of  his  sons,  and  presently  began  to 
assail  him  with  all  the  abuse  of  which  he  was  master. 
He  charged  the  Abbe  with  unspeakable  villainy ;  salop 
and  saligaud  were  the  terms  in  which  he  would  habi- 
tually refer  to  him.  He  knew  the  rascal  for  a  spy,  and 
no  modesty  restrained  him  from  proclaiming  his 
knowledge.  But  whatever  insults  were  thrown  at 
the  Abbe  he  received  with  a  grin  complacent  as  Shy- 
lock's,  for  was  he  not  conscious  that  when  he  liked 
the  pound  of  flesh  was  his  own  ! 

With  a  fiend's  duplicity  he  laid  his  plans  of  ruin 
and  death.  The  Marquise,  swayed  to  his  will,  re- 
ceived him  secretly  in  the  blue  room  (whose  very 
colour  suggests  a  guilty  intrigue),  though  never,  upon 
the  oath  of  an  Abbe,  when  the  key  was  turned  in  the 


MONSIEUR  UABBt  281 

lock.  A  journey  to  Switzerland  had  freed  him  from 
the  haunting  suspicion  of  the  Marquis,  and  at  last  he 
might  compel  the  wife  to  denounce  her  husband  as  a 
murderer.  The  terrified  woman  drew  the  indictment 
at  the  Abbe's  dictation,  and  when  her  husband  returned 
to  St.  Amand  he  was  instantly  thrust  into  prison. 
Nothing  remained  but  to  cajole  the  sons  into  an  ex- 
pressed hatred  of  their  father,  and  the  last  enormity 
was  committed  by  a  masterpiece  of  cunning.  "  Your 
father's  one  chance  of  escape,"  argued  this  villain  in  a 
cassock,  "  is  to  be  proved  an  inhuman  ruffian.  Swear 
that  he  beat  you  unmercifully  and  you  will  save  him 
from  the  guillotine."  All  the  dupes  learned  their 
lesson  with  a  certainty  which  reflects  infinite  credit 
upon  the  Abbe's  method  of  instruction. 

For  once  in  his  life  the  Abbe  had  been  moved  by 
greed  as  well  as  by  villainy.  His  early  exploits  had  no 
worse  motive  than  the  satisfaction  of  an  inhuman  lust 
for  cruelty  and  destruction.  But  the  Marquise  was  rich, 
and  once  her  husband's  head  were  off,  might  not  the 
Abbe  reap  his  share  of  the  gathered  harvest?  The 
stakes  were  high,  but  the  game  was  worth  the  playing, 
and  Rosselot  played  it  with  spirit  and  energy  unto  the 
last  card.  His  appearance  in  court  is  ever  memorable, 
and  as  his  ferret  eyes  glinted"  through  glass  at  the 
President,  he  seemed  the  villain  of  some  Middle  Age 
Romance.  His  head,  poised  upon  a  lean,  bony  frame, 
was  embellished  with  a  nose  thin  and  sharp  as  the  blade 
of  a  knife  ;  his  tightly  compressed  lips  were  an  indica- 
tion of  the  rascal's  determination.     "  Long  as  a  day  in 

T 


282         A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

Lent " — that  is  how  a  spectator  described  him  ;  and  if 
ever  a  sinister  nature  glared  through  a  sinister  figure, 
the  Abbe's  character  was  revealed  before  he  parted  his 
lips  in  speech.  Unmoved  he  stood  and  immovable; 
he  treated  the  imprecations  of  the  Marquis  with  a  cold 
disdain ;  as  the  burden  of  proof  grew  heavy  on  his 
back,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  weary  indifference. 
He  told  his  monstrous  story  with  a  cynical  contempt, 
which  has  scarce  its  equal  in  the  history  of  crime;  and 
priest,  as  he  was,  he  proved  that  he  did  not  yield  to  the 
Marquis  himself  in  the  Rabelaisian  amplitude  of  his 
vocabulary.  He  brought  charges  against  the  weird 
world  of  Presles  with  an  insouciance  and  brutality 
which  defeated  their  own  aim.  He  described  the  vices 
of  his  master  and  the  sins  of  the  servants  in  a  slang 
which  would  sit  more  gracefully  upon  an  idle  roysterer 
than  upon  a  pious  Abbe.  And,  his  story  ended,  he 
leered  at  the  Court  with  the  satisfaction  of  one  who 
had  discharged  a  fearsome  duty. 

But  his  rascality  overshot  its  mark;  the  Marquise, 
obedient  to  his  priestly  casuistry,  displayed  too  fierce  a 
zeal  in  the  execution  of  his  commands.  And  he  took 
to  flight,  hoping  to  lose  in  the  larger  world  of  Paris 
the  notoriety  which  his  prowess  won  him  among  the 
poor  despised  Berrichons.  He  left  behind  for  our  con- 
solation a  snatch  of  philosophy  which  helps  to  explain 
his  last  and  greatest  achievement.  "  Those  who  have 
money  exist  only  to  be  fleeced."  Thus  he  spake,  with 
a  reckless  revelation  of  self.  Yet  the  mystery  of  his 
being   is   still    unpierced.      He    is   traitor,   schemer. 


MONSIEUR  L'ABBfi  283 

spy;  but  is  he  an  Abbe  ?  Perhaps  not.  At  any  rate, 
he  once  attended  the  "  Messe  des  Morts,"  and  was 
heard  to  mumble  a  "Credo,"  which,  as  every  good 
Catholic  remembers,  has  no  place  in  that  solemn 
service. 


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